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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24283633">in a world that isn't hers</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArgylePirateWD/pseuds/ArgylePirateWD'>ArgylePirateWD</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Person of Interest (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Comforter Feels Guilty for Keeping Huge Secret From Hurt Character, Comforter caused the Hurt, Comforter reads to hurt character, Domesticity, Drawing, Episode: s03e21 Beta, Gunshot Wounds, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, Multi, Nightmares, Physical Therapy, Protective Harold Finch, Protective John Reese, Self-Defense Lessons, Shooting lessons, Trauma Recovery</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 05:33:38</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>26,228</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24283633</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArgylePirateWD/pseuds/ArgylePirateWD</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>In all her life, the most rebellious thing Grace has ever done is become an artist—nothing that would show her what a gunshot wound feels like. After Decima kidnaps her and lets her go, something goes terribly wrong, and she learns that the world around her is hiding plenty of devastating secrets.</p><p>Like what really happened to her late fiancé.</p><p>But Grace has always been good at finding the beauty in bad situations. She just hopes that proves true again this time.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Harold Finch/Grace Hendricks/John Reese</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>46</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Hurt Comfort Exchange 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/branwyn/gifts">branwyn</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Or, an AU where Grace gets shot in the leg when Decima's trading her for Harold, instead of just stumbling.</p><p>Content Notes/Warnings: Contains injury recovery, trauma recovery and elements of PTSD, internalized ableism (of the Harold-believes-he-deserves-his-pain/disability variety)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>In all her life, the most rebellious thing Grace has ever done is become an artist, instead of the teacher her mother wanted her to be, or the housewife her father thought she should be. Nothing that would show her what a gunshot wound feels like.</p><p>"It hurts," she says, as Stills or Reese or whatever the hell his name is fiddles with her IV. The dog hovering at his feet lets out a low whine, like he understands. "I know that probably sounds silly, like, 'Thank you, Captain Obvious,' to a guy like you, but this really, really hurts—my leg, I mean, not the drugs." The drugs make her rambly, apparently, and talkative, but they're good. Very, very good. Knock her out just about every time she gets a dose, make her spill every thought in her brain, but they kick the pain's butt, and that? She needs that.</p><p>But she sounds so ridiculous, even to herself. "You're probably thinking, 'Of course it hurts. You just had a bullet in you a few days ago, Grace,' but this is new territory for me." She's supposed to be in Italy, interviewing for her dream job, a fresh start. Instead... "My leg hurts."</p><p>"The medication will take effect soon." Harold's voice is soft, gentle, familiar, and throws her for one heck of a loop every time she hears it. He runs his thumb over the back of her hand, back and forth, over gravel scrapes and bruises that seem like nothing in comparison to the ball of fire, the <em>hole</em> in her left thigh. "Word of advice for next time? Speaking from experience, the second the pain starts creeping in, do let us know, please. It's easier to get ahead of pain than it is to catch up with it."</p><p>She looks at Harold, at his stiff posture, his straight back and unmoving neck. Her heart twists, drowning out the electric jolt and the sickening ember of anger that keeps popping up in her chest. <em>Speaking from experience.</em> God.</p><p>"Yell at us if you have to," his many-named friend says, wry but kind. <em>Mr. Reese,</em> Harold keeps calling him, or <em>John</em> in more affectionate tones, when he thinks she's asleep. Is that what she's supposed to call him? He has a very nice voice—quiet and raspy, soothing, rough yet soft as cotton. "We can take it."</p><p>"Yeah." She nods, and swallows. "Yeah, okay." She takes a deep breath and tries to get her bearings. It doesn't work. She shouldn't be here. She shouldn't know what it's like to get kidnapped. She shouldn't know what it feels like to get shot. But now she does. "Hey, remind me not to get shot again, okay?"</p><p>Harold lets out a choked, horrified sound, and his hand clenches around hers. His friend chuckles a little, his hint of a smile transforming his chiseled, handsome face into something even more beautiful, and he pats her carefully on the arm. Leaning in a little, he says, "Don't ever get shot again."</p><p>"Yes, please refrain," Harold says. She glances in his direction again, and that same jolt that hits her every time she looks at him runs through her. It's surreal. It's him sitting there, and yet...and yet...</p><p>His clothes are nicer, tailored and vibrant, verdant shades of green today that complement the phthalo green walls. The glasses are wrong. And he's <em>here</em>.</p><p>"You're not supposed to be here," slips out, almost accusing.</p><p>Harold's not as good at hiding his emotions as he thinks he is. A flash of guilt shows in his eyes, before he says, "Nor are you. And yet...here we are."</p><p>"Here we are," she repeats. Any other time, she'd be asking, <em>And where</em> is <em>here, exactly?</em> but she's so loopy and exhausted these days she fears the information would seep right out of her brain. They're "safe," whatever that means, and, judging by the snow-covered evergreens outside the bedroom window, she's got a feeling they're not in New York City anymore, Toto. Not a hospital, despite the leg wound, but a "safehouse" with an underground bunker of some kind, and an "escape route."</p><p>She's lying in a hospital bed, but this isn't a hospital. There's plenty of money for it, though, for endless IVs and a steady supply of drugs. And they were able to pull off a surgery, too, which...<em>how?</em></p><p>Maybe her first real question for Harold, when she's sober enough, should be, <em>Who</em> are <em>you?</em></p><p>Later. It's all pieces of a puzzle she doesn't quite have enough brain to put together yet. She gives Harold a probably-dopey smile, and some of the agony in his face fades away, just a little. He looks nearly as bad as she feels, pale and dark-circled eyes and tragic, every expression pinched with a hint of constant worry. But he's alive, holding her hand, stroking it with his thumb...and there's that jolt again, that startled shock running through her again, making heartbeat and brain jump at once.</p><p>She suspects she should be angrier at him than she is, really, but rage seems so unimportant in this space, with the good drugs oozing through her half-emptied blood vessels and wrapping her mind in blissful, pain-free cotton. He's alive, and she's alive, and the reality of all that can be dealt with later.</p><p>"You're lucky I'm so sleepy right now, mister," she says, letting her leaden eyes fall shut. "I've got a lot of questions for you."</p><p>The movement of Harold's thumb falters, but you wouldn't know it from the even tone of his voice. "I'd expect nothing less from you, my darling," he says.</p><p>Even after everything, the endearment still makes her quiver, still flutters warmly in her belly and blood, especially when it's followed by him stroking her cheek. God, she's <em>missed him.</em> "And, again, do let us know when you need another dose of your medication. I <em>would</em> set a timer, but—"</p><p>"We kind of had to make a run for it, so we don't have one," Reese says. "And we're...not really trusting computers right now, except the dinosaur we've got monitoring the security cameras, so we're going old school. No computers, no phones." She can practically hear his grimace. "Doesn't always work so good."</p><p>She tries to picture the Harold she once knew without a laptop or a smartphone or some other tech gadget, and she fails miserably. Software engineer—whether that part was true or not, she's not sure, but he always had some computerized thing with him. <em>Always.</em> "Bet that's driving you crazy, huh?"</p><p>"I'm managing," Harold says, and she can't tell if he's lying through mentally-gritted teeth, or if he's telling the truth. "I'm more than willing to make a few sacrifices on your behalf."</p><p>The words are like a bucket of ice water to the face. Sacrifices. She remembers what she told that man, that there was nothing Harold wouldn't do for her. She'd been <em>right</em>.</p><p>Forcing her tired eyes open, she makes herself look up at him, look at him—really look at him. At his pallor, at the dark around his sad eyes, at the mess of his hair. At the way he tilts his head at her scrutiny—just a little, only as far as his body now allows. At the brave, kind liar in the fancy suit and the wrong glasses.</p><p>She doesn't know how to feel.</p><p>When she finally decides to speak again, she settles on a weak, joking, "You've got plenty of books, though, right?"</p><p>Harold perks up. "Yes. A whole library's worth, nearly."</p><p>"Literally," Reese says. There's something she's missing there, but she doesn't know what it is. Maybe she's just too tired.</p><p>"You should read us something then," she says, letting her eyes close again. "One of you. Something fun."</p><p>"Perhaps we'll save that for when you're a little more awake," Harold says.</p><p>Yeah, that might be a good idea. Grace chuckles. "I'm holding you to that."</p><p>The morphine takes her under, and she lets it, not resisting its pull. Questions—those are for later. But they will be asked. She just hopes they'll lead to some real answers.</p>
<hr/><p>One minute, she was walking across a bridge, blindfolded, after being kidnapped. The next, there was a bang, and her leg was on fire.</p><p>If anyone had ever asked, Grace would've guessed that getting shot was something you'd remember every last little detail of, etched in her brain like acid on glass. But she doesn't—trauma, probably, she thinks.</p><p>Everything else is hazy, or broken up in a thousand tiny pieces of memory. She remembers someone tackling her to the ground, and his grunt when they both hit the asphalt. Shooting, lots of shooting, from big guns, the kind she'd only seen in the movies until her whole life went sideways. Pain. Cold. Then this <em>feeling</em> came over her, a deep, unshakable certainty that this was it, she was going to die on that bridge, and the last thing she'd ever see was the back of a blindfold.</p><p><em>No.</em> The last thing she saw in her life was not going to be artificial darkness.</p><p>Her arms fought against her, heavy and weak, tired, so tired. She thinks she might have said something about wanting to see, but it's such a blur. Then the person clutching her thigh pulled a hand away to help her, and she found herself staring into the beautiful blue eyes of a dead man.</p><p>She'd always loved Harold's eyes so much.</p><p><em>"It's going to be alright, Grace,"</em> he said, his tender voice trembling, like he was trying to convince himself just as much as her. His hand joined the other again on her leg, sending another hot bolt of pain through her, and he winced with her. <em>"Everything's going to be alright."</em></p><p>All her life, she'd heard stories about people seeing their lost loved ones when the were at the edge of death. Her friend Jody saw their late mom after a heart attack. A guy in the support group she went to once after the bombing talked about his grandma seeing his grandpa right before passing, and how he wanted to see his boyfriend again. Others. Ever since, she'd <em>desperately</em> hoped she'd see Harold again when she went. It was a comforting idea. Morbid, but comforting.</p><p>And then she saw him.</p><p>Except the details were different. Harold didn't wear coats that nice, or scarves that colorful. He didn't have black glasses. He didn't use that cologne. But it was <em>him.</em> That was his voice. Those were his eyes. She could feel the weight of his body on hers, the warmth of his words on her skin. She could smell him, his toothpaste, his new bergamot cologne.</p><p>All she could get out of her mouth was a shaky, breathy, choking sob.</p><p><em>"I'm so sorry,"</em> he said. <em>"Grace, I am so sorry. I'll tell you everything. I just need you to hang on for me. Everything will be clear soon. Just stay with me, please. Please."</em></p><p>She was dying, wasn't she? He was there, and it was bad, and she was dying. Her leg didn't hurt anymore. She was cold, so cold, down to the deepest pit of her body. And he was begging her to stay with him.</p><p><em>"Okay,"</em> she said, and she really hopes she said more, because she can't imagine a worse last word. How blah.</p><p>She doesn't remember much after that. Snippets. Waking up in a massive phthalo green bedroom, with snow falling outside. Pain. No pain. Reese's big, gentle hands moving her to check her wound, changing her bandage, urging her to eat, tending to her IV. Reese touching Harold with the same gentle care, and kissing him on the top of the head—and Harold telling him they can't do that anymore. A large, beautiful dog licking her hand. Fragments of hushed conversation that might not be real.</p><p>Harold talking. Harold reading. Harold watching her with despair in his eyes. Harold.</p><p>Everything these days seems to come back to Harold.</p>
<hr/><p>Recovery slips by in the same disjointed blur, time moving like that Dali painting, "The Persistence of Memory," slow and surreal and dripping down the walls. Soft, bland, nutritious food that's gentle on the stomach gets traded for whatever delicious novelty Reese cooks up.</p><p>No, John. His name is John, she learns, first from a few confusing overheard arguments over numbers and some "machine," then when she finally has the brainpower to realize she should ask. He brings her homemade tortellini the first time she really feels hungry, each plump little piece of pasta full of cheese and bursting with flavor, and a perfect cup of espresso with a buttery cornetto full of sweet, dark chocolate the next morning.</p><p>"You're gonna spoil me," she says, sprawled across the massive, decadent bed that's replaced the hospital one. "All these homemade pastries, and pasta, and coffee..."</p><p>"I like to cook," John says, with a tiny, shy half-smile that makes Grace's heart flutter. "Don't have time to do it very often."</p><p>That's a shame. Poor guy. "Well, when you find the time, I am happy to test your experiments. I've only ever been <em>okay</em> at cooking, and Harold...oof."</p><p>John chuckles. It's lovely. "There's always something he'd rather be doing."</p><p>"Oh, yes," she says. "He's so smart. He could probably be amazing if he wanted to be, but...okay, he got it in his head that he was going to make me dinner for my birthday one year? He tried to make lasagna." She shakes her head solemnly. "Whoo boy, that was...something."</p><p>"He didn't cook the noodles first, did he?"</p><p>Making a face, Grace gives him an exaggerated nod, and it turns into a giggle. "They were the kind that say they don't have to be boiled, but he didn't read that far, I don't think? And judging by how clean the kitchen was and how little flour I had left, I <em>think</em> there might've been an attempt at making the noodles himself first? I don't know. But we wound up having takeout instead, and cupcakes."</p><p>It had been a good birthday. Much as she'd loved the scavenger hunt, she'd been having a rough, <em>exhausting</em> week, and she'd just wanted to spend some time with her boyfriend. And Harold had picked up on that. "He was a good boyfriend," she says, and looks down into her espresso. "I thought so, anyway. I guess I never really knew him, huh?"</p><p>"He did it for you," John says. "A lot of it. The secrets, the dying. Doesn't mean you have to forgive him, but...when you're ready, he'll probably tell you why this time."</p><p>"Will he?" she asks, sharply. "He didn't..." Except, no, he <em>tried</em>. She told him not to while he looked so distressed, that there was nothing he could say that would make her run away. "He did offer once, to tell me some things, on another birthday, but he was so upset about it, and I was having such a good day...maybe I'm not being fair to him?"</p><p>"He had four years," John reminds her, "and all that time he was dead. But he also had his reasons for keeping things from you...but I think this is a conversation you need to have with him, not me. When <em>you're</em> ready, not him."</p><p><em>Why did you fake your death?</em> How do you even have that conversation, she wonders. How do you get ready for it? Especially when you're in pain, with just enough energy to lie around and wallow in soreness and morphine, your mind full of kidnappings and gunshots.</p><p>She lets the matter lie like her, a problem saved for another day. A day, perhaps, without talk of physical therapy, said by Harold and John with matching looks of dread.</p><p>"Oh dear. Guess walking on this leg's not gonna be a cakewalk for a bit, huh?" she says, gesturing toward her thigh.</p><p>Harold cringes, and John, with another of those little smiles of his, says, "It's not gonna be fun."</p><p>As promised, Harold reads, seemingly every book she suggests materializing out of thin air—lovingly worn copies of Dickens and Austen, crisp and new Terry Pratchett and Douglas Adams. Even the cheesy Harlequin novel from her nightstand, the one her cousin Julia said she <em>had</em> to read, its hand-painted butterfly bookmark from her friend Carson right where she left it.</p><p>"That mean you've got the rest of my stuff?" she asks, hopeful, begging, <em>Please say yes,</em> inside. Maybe her paintings weren't lost. Maybe they have—</p><p>Harold understands immediately, and lightly touches her arm. "Your work is safe." She exhales a massive sigh of relief. "It's downstairs waiting for you, along with your paints and brushes and everything else Ms. Shaw and Ms. Groves could retrieve from your place. Whenever you're ready."</p><p>"Thank god," she says, as, to her dismay, tears start to trickle down her cheeks. She'd barely even thought of her stuff somehow, like she was already mourning it as lost. Like the rest of her life. She's not going to be able to go back to her life, they've said.</p><p>The quiet, hesitant tears turn into weeping, into sobs.</p><p>Everything's changed. Everything's <em>wrong</em>. No more peaceful little life with her peaceful little home near Washington Square Park that Harold left her. No more quietly painting, illustrating, existing without troubling anyone. And she doesn't even know <em>why.</em> It hits her hard, all at once, sudden and brutal and ruthless.</p><p>Everything—every single thing, every single goddamn thing—she thought about the world was wrong. John asked her if she knew how to use a gun the other day. She hasn't touched a gun, hasn't been anywhere near one, since her granddaddy took her hunting a few times when she was a kid. Never needed one. The pepper spray she always forgot to keep in her purse and the self-defense classes she took right before she met Harold because the instructor was hot were supposed to be enough.</p><p>"Oh, my dearest," Harold says, soft and devastated, and he sets the book aside and joins her on the bed. Without thinking, without hesitation, she flings herself into his open arms, burying her face in his chest.</p><p><em>It's his fault,</em> she thinks, as he holds her gently, as he runs his hands up and down her back and murmurs, "Oh, Grace," and, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," so tenderly. <em>He did this to you. If you hadn't met him, if he'd just stayed dead...</em></p><p>She sobs harder, big, broken, ugly sounds.</p><p>"Everything," she says, and he freezes, his hands going still. "Harold, I need you to tell me everything."</p><p>He doesn't say anything at first. Her tears soak his waistcoat, staining the red silk and golden embroidery dark, burning her cheeks. His silence hangs between them, stretches, sprawls out like a no. He's not going to tell her, she thinks. Or he's going to lie, god, he's such a <em>liar</em>...</p><p>Then, Harold lets out a slow, tremulous breath, and he starts to speak.</p><p>Whatever she was expecting, it wasn't this.</p>
<hr/><p>It's still cold, especially in the middle of nowhere. She sits out on the massive balcony anyway, bundled up in Harold's coat, and watches the pines sway in the wind. The world is quiet here, miles from the sounds of the city, from towns, from anyone. She can hear the rustle of the needles on the trees, the rush of the wind, the stray birds scattered here and there.</p><p>It's almost peaceful.</p><p>Almost.</p><p>When Harold died, she learned what loneliness felt like. For months, years, there was an ache in her chest, a hollow, her torso an echoing cavern that could never be filled again. Moments rattled around inside that space, memories scraping against the walls of her insides with an ungodly screech. Nothing could touch the emptiness inside her. No one.</p><p>She lost a part of herself that day. And she always thought that, if she ever found out why, it might come back. Now...</p><p>Grace rolls her wheelchair closer to the railing, for a better look at the trees, for a distraction. It doesn't help.</p><p>Nobody came to his funeral. That was the thing that echoed the loudest inside her. No kind people who loved him too but were strangers to her. No polite coworkers, no friends, not one damn person. Just her and the priest. Because no one knew him—not anymore. The one person who did was dead.</p><p>
  <em>"There's this...machine, this system."</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"It watches everyone."</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"I built it."</em>
</p><p>It's been a long time since she's cried like this. Tears fall hot and fast and silent, chilling on her raw cheeks. She doesn't bother to wipe them away. The tears, the loneliness, the grief—they're like old friends. Familiar. God, they're the only familiar thing she has left anymore.</p><p>Her leg aches. The most rebellious thing she's ever done in her life is become an artist, and she got a gunshot wound to the thigh for her trouble. And a fiancé. A fiancé who built an AI, who's on the run from the government, who's a vigilante—<em>former</em> vigilante, allegedly—who's at the center of a burgeoning war. Who may not even survive it.</p><p>Everything she's ever thought she knew is a lie. And even if she'd never met Harold, that would still be true. There'd still be his Machine out there. That Samaritan thing would still be out there. And she'd never even know it.</p><p>What does she still not know?</p><p>She doesn't know how long she sits out there before the door creaks open behind her, and soft, even footsteps cautiously approach. Her immediate impulse is to snap, <em>"What?"</em> or <em>"Go away,"</em> in the most petulant tone she can manage. She doesn't.</p><p>"Thought you might like a blanket. And some coffee."</p><p>John has such a kind face, with the saddest eyes she's ever seen. John used to kill people for the government. John and Harold have been lovers for over a year.</p><p>It's funny—the sadness in his eyes is the only one of those things that upsets her.</p><p>"Thank you," she says, and she takes the bundle of cobalt blue wool from his arms and drapes it over herself, poorly, leaving her slipper-clad feet uncovered. Under her breath, she mutters, "Oh, dammit," then wipes her eyes on the edge of the blanket.</p><p>"Here, I've got it." John hands her the silver travel mug in his hand and ducks down to help. As she pops open the lid, John straightens the blanket, pulling it down over her legs, covering her better. "So, I guess Harold told you some things, huh?" he asks, level with her knees.</p><p>"A few, yeah." She takes a sip of the coffee, and doesn't bother to hold back a pleased, "Mm!" Mocaccino, strong and rich and sweet, the bitterness of the coffee and chocolate tempered by milk and sugar. "Don't worry—I'm not mad at you."</p><p>"Really?" John pushes himself back upright, his long, lean body unfurling. Along the way, his joints pop a little. It's strangely endearing.</p><p>"Really, really," she says. And she's not. The anger most people would feel, the jealousy—it's not there, the brief hints of it already gone. John is lovely, albeit terrifying, and she likes him. "Pretty sure faking your death counts as a breakup—at least temporarily—and even if it doesn't, I dated a few other people myself, and Harold and I had...an agreement. It's fine."</p><p>John's eyebrows rise.</p><p>"I think it's called an open relationship? I know, I know—it's not something most couples do, and a lot of the ones who do have some trouble with it sometimes," Grace continues. "But I'm an artist. I've got a lot of friends who...see the world a little differently than most people. Some of them are poly." At his confused look, she explains. "Polyamorous. They're—"</p><p>"I know what it means," he says, gently. "Just...kind of hard to picture Harold...but I guess it makes sense, if I think about it."</p><p>"Yeah. I've never been with more than one person at once, and none of my partners have, but I've always been like, hey, if you find someone you love, don't give them up on my account. Just, you know, be honest with me, and with them. But this is so...yeah. It's kind of crazy, isn't it?" It's...nice, now that she thinks about it, that Harold had somebody. It makes her smile. "I'm really glad he wasn't alone this whole time."</p><p>"I'm sorry," John says, his sad blue eyes going wide and earnest. Her heart clenches. God, he really would tear himself to pieces for someone else, wouldn't he? "I won't let this get between the two of you. I'll—"</p><p>"You don't get what I'm saying, do you?" She lays her free hand on his chest, and he looks away. "John, honey, you don't have to give him up. I know you're in love with him, and it's okay—really. Long as you're willing to share..."</p><p>"Anything," John says, turning to her again, looking deep into her eyes. The unshakable certainty in them makes her shiver. "I'd do anything for him.  For you. For both of you."</p><p>"Then I don't see what the problem is." She gives him a gentle smile and strokes his chest, over his battered heart. "Harold told me a lot of things—a <em>lot</em> of things—that I am having a lot of trouble with, or that I'm going to have a lot of trouble with. Him loving you, and you loving him? That's not one of them."</p><p>John opens his mouth—probably to protest—then closes it again. Grace presses on.</p><p>"Now, if this was, I don't know, something sleazy, then I might have a problem with it. But love?" She pats his chest. "There is not enough of that in the world, especially these days."</p><p>They stay quiet for a moment, then she thinks of something else to say. "Harold's not very good at letting people in, in case you haven't noticed." John huffs, just the tiniest hint of a laugh, and Grace can't help a chuckle of her own. "Wow, that is probably the understatement of the century, huh?"</p><p>"Probably."</p><p>"Yeah. But he let you in." She tugs playfully at the lapel of his shirt, saying, "Must mean you're pretty special," then smoothing the white fabric back into place. "And who knows—maybe that means I'll fall in love with you, too. Crazier things have happened.</p><p>"But I'm not going to take him away from you," she finishes. "Not if you're not going to take him away from me. Okay?"</p><p>Whatever John's feeling, he hides it well. "I won't take him away from you," he says, firmly, then, "He loves you," like he doesn't believe it's true that Harold loves him, too. Poor man.</p><p>Before Grace can even try to come up with a way to reassure him, John asks, "And the other stuff—how are you holding up with that?"</p><p>The little hint of a good mood that was starting to peek out like the sun behind the clouds drops to the pit of her stomach in an instant. She buries her falling face in another drink of coffee.</p><p>John winces. "That bad, huh?"</p><p>At first, Grace sighs. Then, she shakes her head. "I don't...I don't really know." God, how do you even react to it all? The fake names, the government conspiracies, the megacomputers that may or may not be able to think for themselves—how do you process that? And faking your death to protect someone? That doesn't happen outside of the movies.</p><p>And yet...</p><p>"I kind of feel like I'm living in a nightmare," spills out. "Or some kind of sci-fi movie, except I don't really watch much sci-fi except for the really silly comedy stuff, and this is <em>my life.</em> But now my life is just...I don't know." Her eyes start to burn again. "I don't know."</p><p>John nods, an understanding look on his face. He gets it; she can tell. "It's a lot to take in, isn't it?"</p><p>"Yeah." She blinks back another wave of tears. "Everything I thought—no, everything I <em>knew</em>—about the world is wrong. And I'm not sure I understand all of it. I mean, there's this <em>machine</em>, and, like—what is that? Is it an actual machine, or a computer or something, because when I think of <em>The Machine</em>—"</p><p>She waves her hands theatrically, careful not to spill her coffee. "—I keep picturing that thing Humperdinck and the Six-Fingered Man used on Westley, with all the water and the suction cups and the pump and stuff—that was called 'the machine,' too, right? 'No one withstands <em>The Machine</em>.' And I don't think it's that.</p><p>"So what is it? Do you know? What is this machine thing he built?"</p><p>John seems to think about that for a moment, silently. Then, he says, "It's an AI, I think. Harold knows better than I do, obviously—"</p><p>"Obviously."</p><p>John grins briefly. "—but the thing can think for itself, I think. It spots terrorists, and everyday criminals, and can predict what we do. We've talked a few times. But where it's at, what it looks like now...I think only it could tell you, and it's not talking."</p><p>"And the other thing?" What was it Harold called it? "That Samaritan thing? The ones the guys who are after me have? Is it the same thing, but evil?"</p><p>"Pretty much. I'm not a tech guy, though—that's Harold's department. I just know it wasn't made by him, and it probably wants us dead."</p><p>"Oh, gosh, yeah." An AI. She vaguely knows what that is, and that this one's big and smart, like Harold's. It's <em>terrifying</em>.</p><p>"And it's only a matter of time before it comes online and stays online. Root says whatever happened on that bridge bought us some time, but she's not sure how much."</p><p>That's not very comforting. Especially since... "What <em>did</em> happen?" she asks. "That old guy was very, very insistent that I wasn't going to be hurt. And then I get shot? What the hell? Was he lying, or—"</p><p>"Something went wrong," John replies. "We don't know what. Best theory The Machine's got is that Samaritan has a bug and gave someone some bad orders, and you got caught in the crossfire, or they were aiming for Harold, but, uh. We...didn't exactly leave anyone we could ask behind back there, so we might never know."</p><p>Grace's stomach drops. That means they're all...those guys are..."You killed them."</p><p>"They hurt you."</p><p>"Yeah, but..." As it sinks in, her shaking hand goes to her mouth. All those guys in that SUV with her, all those big, scary, silent men with guns and earpieces and suits that took her to the bridge—all of them, every single one, is dead. For shooting her. "Are they..." She swallows the lump in her throat. "Are they the only ones?"</p><p>John hesitates before replying, a quiet, "No," that sends a chill down her spine. She thinks of those arguments she overheard—the horror in Harold's voice, the near-yelling over someone named McCourt, who sounds familiar. The politician? Is he dead? Did John kill him? God...</p><p>"They won't get away with what they did to you," John continues, "or what they plan to do to everyone. We won't let them. Harold's trying to work out a plan, but he hasn't figured it out yet." John grimaces. "You probably won't want to know what it is when he does."</p><p>People are going to die because of her. People with lives, with families. And they're bad people. Bad people who are going to do bad things to countless good people, to innocent people, to people who are trying so hard to be good like John and Harold. Some might die under Harold's orders.</p><p>"I don't understand." She runs her hand over her face, through her hair. "I don't know how to deal with this," she says. "I don't...I'm an <em>artist!</em> I paint things, I draw things, I don't..."</p><p>"You weren't supposed to know," John says, soft and gentle.</p><p>"But I'm tied up in it anyway!" Her eyes start to blur again. "Because of the guy I fell in love with."</p><p>John opens his mouth, but Grace cuts him off. "I know he tried to protect me from this, to shield me from all of this...this <em>craziness.</em> But he lied to me, and it didn't even work! He lied to me, he hurt me, and it didn't even work!"</p><p>"Yes." Harold's voice cuts through the anger, the sadness, the chaos in her head. She turns her chair around just as he steps outside—limping harder than usual, according to John; she heard them talking, John asking if the cold was hurting Harold's aching bones, and it is. And oh, god, that just hurts her even more. He must be in so much pain.</p><p>Sometimes, she wishes she could turn her empathy off, her sympathy, the part of her that still lights up inside a little when she sees his face, sees him alive. But she can't.</p><p>"I hurt you," Harold continues. "I recognize that. I accept responsibility for that, and I truly, <em>truly</em> am sorry, in multiple senses of the word. Yet here we are anyway, and if I knew how to make it right, I would."</p><p>She wishes she knew how he could fix it, too, how to fill the godawful hollow ache in her chest, but she doesn't. But instead of saying that, "You have a funny way of giving someone space, Harold," slips out.</p><p>Harold flinches. "Yes, well," he says, shifting in place, onto what she guesses is his good leg. He hasn't even told her which one hurts. God. "It's almost time for your next dose of your medication, so I thought..." He shrugs, the gesture going all the way to his face, all raised eyebrows and a flattened, twisted mouth, then he pulls a pill bottle from his pocket. "I thought you might appreciate the reminder."</p><p>"Thank you." Her eyes meet his as she takes the bottle from his hand, and his fingers brush lightly against hers, the faint touch of his warm skin on her cold hand sending a small shiver through her body. He steps back immediately, straightening up, his face blanking like putting on a mask—or, no. Putting up a shield.</p><p>"I'll leave you to your thoughts now," Harold says, voice weary. "If you'd like to talk, I'll be downstairs in the study." She starts to question that, point out the wheelchair, but before she can, he quickly adds, "Oh, don't worry—there's an elevator down the hall. This house is designed to accommodate a lengthy recovery from severe injuries."</p><p>Then, soft and tender, pained, Harold adds, "I just...I never would've imagined that such a place would be used for you."</p><p>With a brief flash of a smile for her, and another for John, Harold turns and walks away, leaving the two of them alone. She watches him go—the heaviness of his uneven steps, the sagging of his shoulders. Part of her wants to call out to him, ask him to wait, to stay, to apologize herself and ease his hurt. But she can't.</p><p>She <em>can't</em>. Even though it feels like he's taking a piece of her heart along with him.</p><p>When Harold's out of sight, John's hand settles on her shoulder, big and heavy and soothing. "Are you okay?"</p><p>"No." She doesn't even have to think about it. "No, I'm not. I am really, really not."</p><p>"Would you like something else to think about?"</p><p>She looks up at him, wide-eyed and curious, and John gives her a half-smile. "I talked to Shaw the other day," he says, and it takes her a moment to remember which of the women is Shaw—the shorter, intense one, "when I went on my supply run, and she said it's way past time for us to start getting you out of that chair. What do you say we test out your crutches once that painkiller kicks in?"</p><p>"Oh." Grace thinks about that for a moment, then cringes. "That sounds...pleasant."</p><p>"Yeah." John lets out a small bark of laughter, and she wonders what he'd look like and sound like if he laughed for real, if he ever does. "It's gonna suck. But it'll take your mind off everything else."</p><p>"Well, when you put it like <em>that</em>," she drawls, "how in the world could a girl resist?"</p>
<hr/><p>Physical therapy is worse than she imagined—a lot worse. With John hovering at her side, and Bear joining them and trotting behind them, Grace manages to travel down the length of the hallway and back again, sweating and cursing the whole way. Every time she puts her weight on her leg—even the tiniest bit—it's agony, a fiery pain seizing her thigh and stealing her breath. But it must be done.</p><p>"Oh, god," she gets out between whimpers, collapsing against John halfway through the trip. John catches her with ease, holds her upright without even the tiniest grunt of effort. "Oh, god, you weren't kidding."</p><p>"I wasn't kidding."</p><p>"This is terrible. This <em>sucks</em>." She's whining, and sagging against a near-stranger, and she doesn't even care. "This really, really sucks. And you get shot all the time? You poor man."</p><p>"I have experience," he says. "Training. I'm glad you don't." In an even gentler tone, he asks, "Need me to go get your chair, or carry you back to your room?"</p><p>Her first impulse is to say <em>yes</em>. The thought of him carrying her, with those strong arms of his, sends an embarrassing thrill through her blood. God, she feels like a teenager with a crush. Matter of fact, John kind of looks like her teenage crush, Eddie, only <em>better.</em></p><p>She really should get ahold of herself. "No. Just need to catch my breath a minute. I'm okay." She inhales deeply, and, oh, that's nice, and it doesn't help. John smells good, like fresh coffee, like leather and smoke tinged with spice—a cologne that Harold probably picked out for him, she thinks, her stomach sinking. John doesn't seem like the type to bother finding a nice cologne that really suits him, but Harold is.</p><p>Everything always comes back to Harold, in the end.</p><p>"What am I supposed to do?" she asks, and John makes an inquiring noise. "About Harold, I mean. And my life, and everything else. What do I do—what would you do?"</p><p>"What would I do?"</p><p>"If you found out everything you thought you knew was a lie," she says, "and the person you love is actually alive."</p><p>John stays silent for a long time, his hands a heavy brand on the curve of her waist, long enough for Grace's breath to mostly even out and the pain in her thigh to settle down a little. She waits, and then, voice hoarse, he replies, "I'd run—" His voice cracks. "Run right back to her. And she'd tell me to walk away, and I'd deserve it."</p><p>She regrets her question immediately. "You lost someone."</p><p>After a moment, John lets out a shaky breath, and says, "Yes."</p><p>"Oh, god." Grace pulls away and braces herself against the wall, and she reaches out to give John's arm a hopefully-comforting squeeze. "John, sweetie, I am so sorry."</p><p>"It's okay." His eyes are shining when he looks away, turning his attention to petting Bear, and, god, she feels like such a jerk. "You didn't know."</p><p>"But, see, that's the thing—no one gets it," she says. "Nobody ever imagines that you might've lost somebody. They ask you all these questions, and I used to get so <em>mad</em>, because they never think, because it always, <em>always</em> hurts, and...god, you know what happened after Harold died? Three days after he died, just three days, my aunt called me on the phone and asked me when I was going to give my mom some grandbabies!</p><p>"My fiance was dead, and my aunt was asking when I was going to have his babies, and I had to tell everyone I wasn't even getting married anymore! And it hurt! It hurt <em>so bad</em>, and I should know better, I should—god, I'm lucky he's back, I must sound so <em>ungrateful</em>..."</p><p>"Grace," he says, gently, his damp eyes staring into hers, "you didn't know. And Harold hurt you."</p><p>"He told me about your friend," she says, and John's eyes clench shut, just for a moment, then glances away. "About Joss. The cop. I heard about that on the news—of course I did. It was all they talked about for days; it was so sad. But I'm guessing this isn't her. He would've said..."</p><p>"Her name was Jessica. It's, uh." He exhales, loud and shaky. "It's been a few years. I didn't...I didn't get there in time. Thought I'd never learn to live with it. Didn't want to—not really."</p><p>He turns his head toward the elaborate wooden staircase down the hall, toward the elevator. "Then he found me."</p><p>She thinks of the day Harold walked up to her, this strange, adorable man with spiky hair, glasses, and an ice cream cone, and said hello to her. "He's good at finding people."</p><p>"Told me I needed a purpose. Gave me one." John smiles another of those brief, ephemeral smiles of his, tinged with sadness, all the love he has for Harold showing in that single telling moment, transforming him from handsome into beautiful. "I thought...all I was, all I'd ever be was a killer, and I didn't...I gave up. But we help people. <em>I</em> help people. He gave me that. He gave me my life."</p><p>John blinks back the hint of tears on his long, black lashes, then looks at her again. "I hope you can forgive him for this, for everything."</p><p>This time, Grace is the one averting her eyes.</p><p>"I'm not saying you have to, but he loves you. And you don't have to love him back. Hell, you don't even have to like him anymore. But he's a good man—a much better man than me, anyway—and he loves you."</p><p>"Does he?" she asks, though, deep down, she thinks she knows it's true—isn't it? "He's told me so many lies, John. So many lies."</p><p>"Yeah," John says. "But his love for you, for both of us? That one's real. And there is nothing he wouldn't do for you."</p><p><em>Except tell me his real name,</em> she thinks, bitterly. <em>Where he grew up. Any of the basic stuff he knows about me. I don't know him at all.</em></p><p>"And, hey." John's callused fingers touch her cheek, nudging her jaw, urging her to face him. She does, and his hand falls away. "We're not going anywhere for a while. Not 'til that leg of yours is healed. Might as well give him a chance."</p><p>"Or at least be civil?"</p><p>John tilts his head in a hint of a shrug, and Grace blows out a loud breath, ending with an overwhelmed, "Whoo." She collects herself a little, straightening her hair, wiping the dampness from her eyes. "Will he ever tell me everything, do you think? The little things, the things that really scare him?"</p><p>"He's probably working on it. It's not easy for him. He's a...really private person." He says the last part especially fondly, like it's an inside joke—god, he loves Harold so much, doesn't he? "But he's worth keeping in your life, I think."</p><p>"Yeah." She nods. "And I missed him. I missed him <em>so much</em>. I would've done anything to see him again, to—" Her voice cracks. "To hold him again. To show him something silly on the internet, or walk other people's dogs with him again, or eat ice cream cones in January again, or...anything. All these little things. All these big things. I'd've even taken a bullet for it."</p><p>"And you did," John says.</p><p>"Yeah. I got shot, and he came back to me." She wipes her eyes again. "How many people who lose someone can say that? I'm the luckiest woman in the world, and I don't even know how I feel about it. I should probably be happy! I'm probably supposed to be happy! But I-I've been lied to, and <em>hurt</em>, and I grieved over him for years, and I missed him, and he was out there all along. Living his life. Without me."</p><p>Then, she heaves a sigh. "And without his best friend, and in so much pain, and in fear. Which one of us got the worst end of the deal? I don't know—do you?"</p><p>"I think it's complicated," John says. "And I think he didn't lie to you about the most important things. He loved you. He loves you. He cares about you—enough to walk away from you. Is that enough to forgive him? I can't tell you that.</p><p>"But I can tell you he'll be waiting for you, if you do. He waited for me. He'll do it for you."</p><p>There's not much more to say after that. She starts walking again, slow, halting, painful steps on her crutches. The question of Harold weighs heavily on her mind, her body, her mind dragging her in countless directions at once. She wants to blame him, but is it his fault? She wants to forgive him, but does he deserve it? She wants to love him, but should she?</p><p>"Talk to me about something else," she says. "Ask me about my art, or someone else's art, or, I don't know, something."</p><p>"Okay," John says. "When did you decide you wanted to be an artist?"</p><p>"I never did," she replies, and starts to tell him everything. How she picked up a crayon one day and drew a picture and just never stopped drawing. About the doodles she left on nearly every piece of paper she ever touched. About the teacher who took her notebook away because she wasn't paying attention in class, and the boy who stole it back for her because he was sweet on her. Ricky. Fourth grade.</p><p>The stories keep spilling out. She talks about her grandmother giving her a set of cheap watercolors for Christmas one year, then a more expensive set the next. Her high school art teacher, a cranky old asshole who liked her better than anyone because she actually cared. The attempts she made at digital art that just didn't click, because it's <em>different</em>, because it didn't feel <em>right</em>. How it felt when it finally did, the mix of relief and disappointment, like she was betraying her predecessors, her craft by switching media like that, but also the joy of having a new way to express herself.</p><p>Then John confides that he used to draw "a little" when he was younger. "Wasn't too bad at it, either," he says, and it's easy to picture that. His steady hands, his intense focus, his competency. Yeah, she can see it. "But at some point I just...stopped."</p><p>"And you never picked it up again?"</p><p>"Never had time."</p><p>"Well, you've got plenty of it now," she says, "and I've got lots of pencils and paper and stuff. Just say the word, and I'll let you use it, okay?"</p><p>John smiles sadly, and she can tell he's about to turn her down—she knows the type—so she adds, "It's never too late to start up again, John. I've seen little old men and little old ladies start drawing when they're way older than the both of us. There's nothing stopping you right now."</p><p>"I'll keep that in mind."</p><p>Well, that's better than a no, she thinks. Maybe with a little pushing, she can convince him. She'd like to see what he comes up with.</p><p>By the time she's drained a full glass of water and collapsed on her bed, sore and panting and exhausted, she's itching to get a pencil and sketchpad in her hands again, a paintbrush, <em>anything</em>, even though she hasn't drawn in weeks. Months. "I was feeling a bit blocked even before all this went down myself," she says. "Everything that came out—when anything actually did—sucked. But I think I might be ready now—after a nap."</p><p>"I'll bring you your stuff," John says, leaning her crutches against the wall. He hasn't stopped smiling since she started talking—a real, genuine smile, honest instead of indulgent. She was right about those. Goodness, he is just so lovely when he really smiles. "Once you've had a nap."</p><p>She grins, pleased, and sprawls across the obscenely soft cotton sheets like a hedonist. "Is it gross to go to bed like this—without a spongebath or something first?" She's sweaty, but she's so tired. Maybe she should..."I really should clean up, shouldn't I? Don't want to get my bed all stinky." She makes a face, and John chuckles.</p><p>"Anyone who'd judge has never been really sick, or hurt," he says, and fondness flutters in her chest. "If you want, I can help you to the shower."</p><p>"Ugh, you're not supposed to be so helpful. You're supposed to enable me."</p><p>Not looking the least bit apologetic, John says, "Sorry."</p><p>Grace huffs, and with another disgusted face, she pushes herself back up. "Guess I don't have any excuse, then. Lead the way, then!"</p>
<hr/><p>After a shower that leaves her smelling of sweet orange blossoms—god, Harold even remembered her favorite body wash and shampoo—Grace drops back into the bed with damp hair and falls fast asleep. As soon as she drifts off, the nightmares grab her by the throat and squeeze.</p><p>For months after Harold died, she dreamed about explosions. He died in her head hundreds of times, in hundreds of explosive ways. Big bombs. Little ones. Even a nuke, once or twice. She'd reach for him, run to him, watch in helpless horror as he was killed again and again in ferry terminals, in vast and empty rooms, in the street, in their home.</p><p>This time, he and John go down in a hail of bullets first, before the safehouse hallway is destroyed in a rush of noise and flame.</p><p>She bolts upright, breathless, screaming Harold's name, knowing deep in her heart he won't hear it, he won't answer, because he's dead. He's dead, and she's alone. No one is coming to comfort her, to save her. She wraps her arms around herself and weeps, and doesn't notice anything else until the bed dips beside her and she's pulled into an embrace.</p><p>It's Harold.</p><p>"Oh my goodness," he says, pulling her into his lap, holding her tight. "Grace, I'm here, darling. I'm safe, and so are you." He buries a kiss in her damp hair. "I'm here, I promise. I'm here."</p><p>She clings to him, gripping the arm of his shirt in a tight fist, burying her face in his chest. Deep, wracking sobs shake her body, pour from her lips like the tears from her eyes, and Harold rubs her back, his hands warm and real through her flannel pajamas. "When does it stop?" she asks. "Why won't it stop hurting?"</p><p>"I don't know," Harold replies. Then, quietly, he adds, "I ask that same question every day."</p><p>Because he's lost someone, too. She's not the only one here who knows this pain. But knowing that doesn't make it stop. "I just want it to stop," she says. "To go back to normal."</p><p>Harold's hands still. "Normal," he repeats, softly. "I'm so sorry, but I'm afraid that is beyond any of our grasps at the moment. Adaptation, survival—those are all that's left."</p><p>Survival. Staying alive. Harold is alive. He's alive, he's here, warm and real, smelling of wool and sencha tea and bergamot cologne. His body is soft yet strong against hers, the tight press of his arms and the splay of his hands soothing.</p><p>He starts to speak again, loving, rhythmic words, something familiar, and it takes a moment for her to recognize it. When she does, her broken breaths catch in her chest.</p><p>"That poem," she says, and some of the tears start to fade. "You wrote that for me."</p><p>He stops mid-verse, and replies, "Yes."</p><p>"I looked all over the place for a copy," she says, pulling back just enough to wipe her eyes on her sleeves, "after I lost you. I kept forgetting the words, and I wanted to paint it on something, or—and you're gonna laugh, 'cause of how we both feel about needles, but I even thought about getting it tattooed on me somewhere."</p><p>"Oh, dear." He sounds horrified, and she's the one who winds up laughing. It feels much better than the tears.</p><p>"Right?" But she can't keep the sadness from her voice when she adds, "But you didn't write it down anywhere."</p><p>"No, I did," he says. "I just...didn't keep it at our house. I memorized it. I thought I might impress you more that way."</p><p>"No one ever wrote a poem for me before," she says. "I was already impressed."</p><p>He chuckles, and Grace smiles through her tears. Despite the many, <em>many</em> flaws, there is a kind, sweet man hiding among the lies that make up Harold Finch. A romantic soul who wrote a poem for her, about her, even though he's not a poet.</p><p>A poem he didn't forget. He picks up where he left off, not fumbling to remember any of it. All the words about her beauty, her spirit, <em>her</em> spill from his lips more easily than the autumn day he shyly said, <em>"I wrote a poem for you,"</em> and told it to her naked skin. The way he shapes the words, the unique cadence of his eloquent voice—it calms her. She's always loved Harold's voice so very much.</p><p>Slowly, the screaming in her head dies down. Her tears dry. She pillows her head on the curve of Harold's shoulder, and Harold doesn't let go of her.</p><p>When he finishes, he kisses the top of her head again, and asks, "Are you feeling better, my darling?"</p><p>"Yeah." She sighs, and finds the tightness around her chest is gone. Meeting his gaze, she adds, "Thank you."</p><p>"Anytime." He shifts position, gently nudging her off of his leg with a regretful frown—so it <em>is</em> the left one that hurts, then. Before she can apologize, he asks, "Your dream—I'm guessing it was about me. Would you like to talk about it?"</p><p>"It's the same one I get all the time," she says, scooting off of his lap and nestling herself against his side. In apology, she rubs his thigh, feeling a line of scar tissue through the fabric of his trousers. "There's an explosion, and you die." Thinking about how she woke up, she cringes. "Waking up screaming your name's a new one, though. I feel like such a drama llama now. Sorry."</p><p>"Oh, no, don't. It was hardly something you could control."</p><p>"I know," she says, "but it's still kind of embarrassing."</p><p>"Trauma can make you behave in curious ways," Harold says. "And I am truly sorry that you learned more about that than you already knew because of me."</p><p>He really means it, she thinks. Growing up, she learned a thing or two about liars, about apologies and remorse. There's a difference between pretty words you want to hear and true, honest regret. Some people never learn how to see it, how to hear it.</p><p>And there's a huge difference between the apologies of someone who doesn't want to crawl out of the bottom of a bottle, and someone who is terrified for the lives of the people they love.</p><p>"I probably never should have inserted myself into your life," he adds, and there's one of those differences right there—the selflessness, the self-awareness. "I'm sorry."</p><p>"I like having you in my life. Most of the time."</p><p>"Still..." He trails off, then says, "Grace, please don't ever feel the need to apologize for the side effects of your brain tormenting you. You've been through a great deal these past few years, much of it because of me. You are more than entitled to a bit of comfort for all that you've endured, and giving it to you is the least I can do."</p><p>Before she can figure out what to say, they get a visitor, who dives onto the bed and leaps in between them.</p><p>"Ah, Bear!" Harold cries out, and Grace giggles as the dog licks her face. "Oh, dear."</p><p>"It's okay," she says, letting herself be bowled over onto her back and loved on by the massive dog. Bear wriggles with enthusiasm as she strokes him and scratches him, and, pretty soon, her hand bumps into Harold's as he joins her. "I like dogs."</p><p>"I recall," he says, fondly. "I remember you being especially enamored with that little gray furball you used to sit for your friend."</p><p>"Chumley," Grace says, unable to help grinning. "One of these days I'm gonna steal him away. If I don't take Bear first."</p><p>"I don't think Mr. Reese or Ms. Shaw would appreciate that—or Bear, for that matter." Harold lies next to her, groaning softly on the way down. She doesn't know if she should comment or not, if it's rude to ask about his disability or if he's okay or what, and he must get that, because he adds, "I'm alright."</p><p>"Guess I'll just have to tag along with you guys, then, huh?" she says. "Hang out with your dog while you all play superhero."</p><p>"I think Bear would like that very much," Harold says, his voice going soft, and he lays a hand atop hers, against Bear's side. "But, Grace, you are welcome to leave at any time. I have a plan in place for you to leave the country, if you'd like—I know you were excited about the offer I engineered for you in Italy. But if you'd prefer to stay behind—"</p><p>Suddenly, the thought of leaving him is incomprehensible. She just got him back. The thought of walking away now seizes her chest with ice. How can she do that? He was dead, and now he's not, and she missed him so much it tore her to pieces. How can she just leave now that she knows he's still around?</p><p>"Yes," she blurts out, and turning her hand around and taking hold of his feels like jumping off a cliff, terrifying and dizzying and maybe a little dumb, except somehow right. "I don't know what I'm doing, or what I want to do with you or how I feel about you and all this craziness yet, but I...I think I still love you. And I want to stay. With you."</p><p>"Then I will do everything I can to ensure that you remain as safe as possible." She can feel his hesitancy as he laces their fingers together, and she gives his hand a squeeze. "I love you deeply, Grace, and there hasn't been a moment since I met you that I haven't wanted you in my life, in some capacity. Even as a friend, if that's all you want."</p><p>Even if it breaks his heart, she thinks.</p><p>"I want you to be as happy as you can be under these impossible parameters that we are all living under now," he continues, "and at this point, there is no changing that you, too, are in grave danger. So, if you wish to be a part of my life, then I no longer see a reason to keep you out."</p><p>"Guess the damage is already done, huh," she says.</p><p>"Indeed." He sighs heavily. "I can't pretend that everything wrong that I have done to you was to keep you safe. A significant proportion of it...no, that's no excuse, is it? But I have never wanted this part of my life to be for you—the secrets, the lies, my death. I only ever wanted you to be safe, and happy.</p><p>"When I first...when The Machine showed you to me, and I finally realized why, I saw this beautiful life we could have together stretching out before me. I saw someone spectacular, someone who enjoyed fine literature and peaceful silences as much as I did, someone who was brilliant and kind and vibrant, and I thought I might finally be happy with someone. It was incredible. It was...more than I ever imagined would be possible for me to have. I'd been running for so long..."</p><p>"You thought you could stop."</p><p>He nods once. "And then I realized what could go wrong. That what I was building was likely to put that life, to put your life, in terrible, terrible danger. And I...I ignored it, for a while. I suppose I wanted to exist in the fantasy where everything was normal for as long as I could, where I could have a quiet life with someone I loved without all these massive, terrible secrets hanging over me."</p><p>With effort, Harold pushes himself up on his side, facing her. "Grace, you are right to want some distance from me, some space. I just wish that I were strong enough to have maintained my distance from you."</p><p>His words stab deep into her heart, but before she can respond, he speaks again. "But I was too in love with you. Maybe if I hadn't watched you, after, I might have kept you safe. If I hadn't maintained that link, if I had been more capable of pretending that you weren't important to me, that you didn't matter more to me than my own life." He lies back down with a small sigh. "If I had let my relationship with John fulfill me, perhaps, but it wasn't..."</p><p>"You were keeping an eye on me," she says. "You had to make sure I was safe."</p><p>"Yes. And no. And instead, I did the opposite. I painted a bullseye on you. I thought by walking away from you that day, after..." He swallows hard. "After I saw Nathan, after—he was just <em>gone</em>. And I thought that by removing myself from your life, I was protecting you, that I would not lose you like that. And then I kept interfering, and watching, and manipulating you from afar."</p><p>Manipulating—the word roils like a knot of ice in her stomach, in her chest. She'd always joked that she had a guardian angel looking out for her when job after job kept coming after Harold's death, while friends who were far more talented than her struggled to keep food on their tables. Carson, who painted her favorite bookmark, moved out of New York with his husband last year, after two decades spent trying to "make it." Her friends Noreen and Fatima are roommates now, both barely scraping by, and she'd been thinking about inviting them to come live with her before all this happened. So many others.</p><p>But for her, the jobs kept coming, and she'd always wondered why. Fatima's work was <em>breathtaking</em>. Nori's eye for color was unmatched. Carson's pieces filled her with as much emotion as her favorite classics. Yet she was the one drawing magazine covers, the one in demand, and she'd never stopped asking why everyone wanted little ol' Grace Hendricks' art.</p><p>Harold wanted her art. Her happiness. Everything. She did have a guardian angel. He just wasn't an angel in the Biblical sense of the word.</p><p>"I feel like I should be angry at you for this," she says. "I should be angry, I should be bitter, I should hate you."</p><p>"And I would certainly deserve it," Harold says.</p><p>"I should feel like you ruined my life." But even though she's got a bullet wound in her thigh, even though her whole life has been changed, there are things that are good. There's a dog snuggled up against her, his hot kibble breath blowing over her face. She's lying on a mattress that's not too plush or too firm, just the way she likes it—Harold even remembered which kind of mattress she liked—with achingly soft sheets and blankets. With plenty of time to recover, too. For a wound like this, a surgery like this, she'd be worrying herself sick over medical bills, even with the generous inheritance Harold left her, but she doesn't have to.</p><p>She has a moment to heal her body. Maybe even some time to heal her mind, surrounded by vibrant green walls, crisp, clean air, pine and birdsong and sky. God knows she needs that. Wonderful food, the sweet yeast scent of fresh bread and the rich aroma of roasting chicken wafting up the stairs and into her room, being cooked by a kind, dangerous man with sad blue eyes and rough but gentle hands.</p><p>Harold is alive, lying next to her, his hand warm against hers. How many people who lose somebody ever get them back? That was something she never thought she'd have again, and she does, but it's <em>complicated</em>. Everything he did, everything he didn't do. She loves him so much she feels like her heart is going to burst from the strain of it, but she's so <em>angry</em> inside, so devastated, and it's all because of him.</p><p>There is so much beauty in her life, so much goodness, but it's tainted. She's lost so much, too, and even though some of it came back, there is a part of it, a part of her, she suspects is gone forever. A part of her that shriveled up and crumbled into dust and blew away like ash. She misses it as much as she missed him.</p><p>"I grieved for you," she says. "I buried you, but I didn't, but I did. I buried your memory." She rolls over to look at him, around Bear's face. "And you were right there all along. Watching me, doing things for me, doing things to me. I still love you—I do. I just...haven't figured out if I love you the same way anymore, or if I even can."</p><p>His eyes downcast, Harold nods once, biting his lip. "Well, if you don't want—" He swallows. "If you no longer wish to be with me, there will be no negative consequences from me." Unable to turn his head—something she hasn't gotten used to yet—he glances at her sideways instead, before he continues. "I won't stop watching over you, for your protection. These are <em>very</em> perilous times. But I will only involve myself in your life if it is in immediate danger, or if you want me to be a part of it. The choice is yours, Grace."</p><p>Then, more quietly, he adds, "For perhaps the first time in years, the choice is yours."</p><p>She nods. "And if I stay with you? Will I at least get some honesty about you? Your real name, your hometown, your—I don't know, how you feel about things, <em>anything?</em>"</p><p>Harold opens his mouth, a tiny hint of a word escaping, then he clamps it shut again. Before Grace can get disappointed, he says, hurried, "I'm sorry. This is quite difficult for me, I'm afraid."</p><p>So many years of secrets. He's been keeping some of them for <em>decades</em>. No wonder he's having so much trouble. "Something small, then," she says, and fumbles around in her brain for an idea. "Your star sign, maybe?" Harold looks at her askance, brow furrowing in baffled amusement. It's nonsense, yeah, but maybe that'll help. "Your real one? I'm guessing you're not really a Capricorn."</p><p>"I thought you found that whole concept as ridiculous as I do."</p><p>"That's the point!" she says. "Something silly, but it's close to something real. Then we'll go from there."</p><p>"Oh, alright, then," he says, clearly humoring her. "I'm a Virgo."</p><p>"There we go!"</p><p>"I was born August 29th, in a very small town called Lassiter, Iowa."</p><p>Grace can't help a grin of her own. "Look at that—you made some progress."</p><p>After a moment, Harold's indulgent smile turns pleased. "I did."</p><p>John whistles downstairs, and Bear bursts into motion, leaping from the bed and scampering out of the room.</p><p>"Whoa," Grace says, with a startled laugh. "Wow, he is something."</p><p>"He's quite the handful."</p><p>She can't resist teasing him, asking, "Bear or John?"</p><p>Harold laughs, and his familiar, awkward "hehe" makes her heart skip. "Both, to be perfectly honest." His eyes sparkle with love, the way he used to look at her—uncomplicated joy, no fear, no worry, no guilt. <em>Take a lover who looks at you like maybe you are magic,</em> she thinks. She wonders if he'll ever look at her that way again, like she is magic instead of a source of regret. "They are <em>exhausting</em>. But I am also inordinately grateful to have them in my life."</p><p>"Seems like they're good for you," she says, moving closer to him, now that Bear's out of the way. Harold lets go of her hand, and, for a second, she's disappointed, until he pulls her into a one-armed embrace, letting his hand rest lightly on her hip. "And you're good for them, especially John. The way he talks about you—he just lights up, like you flipped a switch in his heart or something."</p><p>Softly, Harold says, "I didn't intend to fall in love with him. I didn't even intend for him to be my friend." He sounds so apologetic. "I planned to stay faithful to you, for him to simply be my employee, but..."</p><p>"Love's sneaky like that, isn't it? Sometimes it walks up to you with an ice cream cone in January, and—"</p><p>"—and sometimes it stands across from you with a bomb vest around the chest and looks at you like you are everything," Harold finishes. "He's a good man—one of the kindest, most devoted individuals I have ever met."</p><p>"He seems really sweet," she says. "Scary, but sweet."</p><p>"Oh, yes," Harold says, his eyes going wide. "John can be <em>terrifying</em>." Then, his expression softens again. "But he is a good man, and he is a delight to know. I am...incredibly lucky to have such a person in my life."</p><p>"And he's pretty," she says, grinning. "That doesn't hurt."</p><p>"Yes," Harold says, with a chuckle. "He is <em>very</em> pretty."</p><p>"I was joking with him earlier," she says. "Said maybe I'd fall in love with him, too."</p><p>"I would not be opposed to that," Harold says. "Once you truly get to know him, John is an easy man to love...if you can handle the fact that it will most likely end in tears."</p><p>"But being with you's probably going to end like that, too, isn't it?" she says. "It already has."</p><p>"Yes. And the safest course of action for you would be for you to leave. Go somewhere else, find someone else. If you stay...sooner or later, either John or myself—or, most likely, both—will probably wind up dead."</p><p>"For real this time."</p><p>Harold nods once. "Yes. And it will happen regardless of whether you are here or not, but I just...I'd rather not have you grieve for me again. I'd like you to find peace, Grace. I'd like you to find happiness."</p><p>"And if I decide I'm happier with you than without you?"</p><p>"Then I will welcome you into my life again with open arms, and I will do anything—<em>anything</em>—I can to keep both of us, and John, happy and alive.</p><p>"But the decision is yours, Grace," he continues. "I can't make it for you. I know what I'd prefer, what would make me happiest. I love you dearly. But it's up to you now. Only you can figure this out."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The day goes on, then the days. With John's help, she practices walking around on her crutches every day, and, slowly, Grace gets stronger, needs less and less medication, trades narcotics for less potent painkillers. She and John talk, him telling her about the numbers, her about her art, until they move deeper and deeper into their lives.</p><p>John listens to her. Every single word, no matter how silly or insignificant. That was something she always liked about Harold, too: he listened to her. When she talked about her work, when she talked about her fears, when she talked about her life, Harold always listened, and still does. So does John. She's had exes and "friends" who never heard her, or who made her feel terrible when she talked. John and Harold never do.</p><p>She tells him more about losing Harold, and John lets her cry on his shoulder, holding her so gently in his arms. Some would say that she should be over it by now—all people she has cut from her life, mostly. But he has been touched by pain, too, and he treats hers like it matters.</p><p>Harold, these days, treats her with kid gloves. But he's trying. Struggling, but trying.</p><p>She invites Harold into her bed—just to sleep, for now, ignoring the part of her brain that whispers that she should invite John, too. It's easier to sleep with Harold lying next to her, with the smell of him wafting toward her and the warmth of his body against her side. Sharing the bed with him is different now, though. He sleeps facing away from her instead of toward her, unable to handle pressure on his hip, his aching body cushioned with a careful arrangement of pillows. Her suggestion of swapping sides was met with a regretful frown, and an apologetic, <em>"I need to be close to the edge, so I can get up more easily."</em></p><p>But he's <em>there</em>. His body is as warm as it ever was, as familiar and comforting, even though it's different—softer in places, hard and unyielding in others, scarred. She lines herself up along the length of his back, and she pretends that things are normal, that she's safe, that they're all safe.</p><p>Sometimes, she'll lie awake for what feels like hours, her leg throbbing, and just listen to him snore. Sometimes, they'll both stay awake, and he'll read to her again, or he'll tell her secrets in the dark.</p><p>She finally learns Harold's name one half-sleepless night—his boring, normal name, a name she could imagine a million ordinary Harolds having. Not her extraordinary one. "Maybe you should stick with the birds," she teases, and he laughs and says he intends to.</p><p>"Which one do you prefer?" he asks, but she's too tired to remind him that she's always liked colorful little finches the most. She doesn't think it's a coincidence he named himself "Harold Finch" after he had to leave her. After that, she wraps herself around him for the first time, letting a hand fall lax against the soft curve of his stomach, and she kisses the pale scars on the back of his neck.</p><p>Harold tenses at the first press of her lips, then exhales softly at the third, relaxing. He takes hold of her hand, and she falls asleep smiling.</p><p>The next morning, John shatters the illusion, pulling out a pistol as soon as she's finished her pile of blueberry pancakes.</p><p>"John!" Harold says, eyes wide and scandalized.</p><p>John ignores him. "You said you knew how to use a shotgun and a rifle," he says to her, as he offers her the gun, grip first. "Do you know how to use one of these?"</p><p>"I said my granddaddy took me out hunting a few times," she says, taking the handgun from him, careful not to point it at any of them, or Bear. <em>"Treat every gun like it's loaded, Gracie,"</em>—she does remember that much, her grandfather's rugged voice echoing in her brain. The pistol is heavier than it looks, the shining black metal cold. So much power, she thinks, in one intricate chunk of metal. "Doesn't mean I know how to shoot anything."</p><p>Across the table, Harold's eyes get bigger, more horrified, as she tests the weight of the gun in her hands, the feel of it. "Is this absolutely necessary?" he asks.</p><p>John glances toward Harold, and firmly says, "Yes," then turns back to her. "Harold won't learn how to use a firearm. Will you?"</p><p>"Mr. Reese, John, I really don't think—"</p><p>"There might be a time when I'm not there to protect you," John says, cutting Harold off. "Or Shaw, or Root, or anyone—they might not be around, might not get to you in time. Out here, it's pretty remote. I can show you the basics of how to use this thing without anyone getting hurt. If you're willing to learn."</p><p>She considers it, eying the gun with curiosity. Then, for a moment, she's back on that bridge, walking slowly forward, until someone fires a shot and her leg suddenly <em>hurts</em>. Her stomach starts to churn.</p><p>Wouldn't it be nice to have a chance to fight back?</p><p>Biting her lip, she nods, and looks John in the eyes. "Yes. Yes, I would like you to teach me. I'm willing to learn."</p><p>"Oh, god," Harold says, quietly, with a small groan.</p><p>"Then, whenever you're ready, let me know." John gently takes the gun from her grasp, and tucks it in the back of his black pants. "And I'll try to teach you what to do."</p><p>She gnaws on her lip, resolve building. "Would today be okay?"</p><p>On that beautiful June day, Grace fires a gun for the first time in over thirty years.</p><p>John holds her steady, crouched down behind her wheelchair, his big hands around her wrists. Patiently, he talks her through every step, his raspy voice just loud enough to be heard through her protective earmuffs as he shows her how to load and unload, how to brace herself, how to aim. His words blow soft and warm against her cheek, her neck, raising goosebumps on her skin, making her shiver.</p><p>But it's the competence that gets to her, that coils tight and hot in her belly. He knows what he's doing. The guy who taught her self-defense class was gorgeous, sure, but he didn't <em>know</em> this stuff—not on a deep level that's near spiritual. Like Harold knows computers, John knows guns, knows his craft, and that? That is unspeakably sexy to her.</p><p>God, she is in so much trouble.</p><p>Their target looms ahead of them, a sheet of poster board dangling by twine tied between a branch and a footstool. A human torso stands out in black ink on the white, drawn by John with thick permanent marker, with broad circles on the figure's abdomen and chest. It's very well done for something so crude. She can tell that he used to be an artist, that there's talent lurking just beneath the surface.</p><p>"Aim for center mass," he tells her. "If someone from Decima wants you dead, don't show them any mercy. Shoot to kill. Harold's not gonna like it—" She can <em>hear</em> his wry smile. "—but he'll like you being dead even less."</p><p>Sweet spring air blows the leathery scent of John's cologne toward her, the fragrance of his hair gel, the cool mint toothpaste on his breath. His body surrounds her, his strength, his patience and power and competence reassuring.</p><p>"You can do this," he says, as she lines up her shot. "Remember, aim for center mass."</p><p>Grace aims, squeezes the trigger, and she shoots the target in the right elbow.</p><p>Even with earmuffs shielding her ears, the violent report reverberates in her skull. She barely hears her own muffled, "Whoops!" or John's simultaneous, "Nice shot."</p><p>She whips around, giving him an incredulous look. "Really?" she asks. "I missed."</p><p>"You got close," John says, with one of his tiny smiles. "Pretty sure our guy over there won't be firing anymore rounds. Gonna try again?"</p><p>"Yes!" she says, chirpier than she ever would've expected. "Maybe this time I'll get him real good." Poor Harold would be horrified at her zeal.</p><p>John, however, chuckles, and says, "Good luck."</p><p>She fires again and again, shot after shot. Most of them hit the board, even the target, but not anywhere vital, peppering the guy's arms, grazing his sides.</p><p>"You're doing great," John tells her, then gives her more tips, corrects her hold.</p><p>She hits the guy in his left lung next time, and she lets out a triumphant whoop.</p><p>"There we go," John says, and she can hear the pride in his voice. She turns around, beaming, and finds him smiling, too—properly this time, wide and bright. Her heart skips. He really is so beautiful when he smiles. What she wouldn't give to make him smile like that all the time. "Look at you—you're doing a pretty great job of handling yourself." From almost any other guy, it might sound patronizing, but from John, it's earnest. Respectful.</p><p><em>I really like you,</em> she finds herself thinking once again. She's been curious about him since the day she met him, intrigued by handsome Detective Stills, who spoke so softly, who asked about Harold and smiled when she told him about the ice cream, who was so tall, so good-looking. She's not that shallow, but she has an appreciation for beautiful things, and John is beautiful. For months, she hoped to run into him again, had more fantasies than she'd care to admit about him swooping in and rescuing her from some danger.</p><p>Harold would've liked him, she thought. He would've approved.</p><p>The real Detective Stills was a nasty piece of work, supposedly, and she'd certainly never imagined the kind of danger she'd be in the next time she crossed paths with John. But she likes the reality of him more than the fantasy. He's a good man. Poor guy doesn't think so, but he is. And she was right about Harold liking him, which is delightful. They're so lovely together.</p><p>She realizes she's been staring into John's eyes like a sap for way too long when John politely clears his throat. But they're so easy to get lost in, sad blue-gray turning to turquoise amid the greenery, deep and brilliant and stunning. "There's only a few more rounds left," he rasps, and she jumps, a little, startled by the sound of his voice. "What do you say we wrap this up?"</p><p>"Sure!" she says, way too loud, and turns around, her cheeks burning hot. "Yeah, uh, let's...let's do this thing!"</p><p>She'd thought she was joking when she said, <em>"Maybe I'll fall in love with you, too."</em> But she remembers this feeling—the flutter in her belly, the warmth, the sparks. Getting lost in someone's smell, in their smile, in the depths of the ever-changing hue of their eyes. Wanting to keep them smiling, take their pain and let them take her own, spend hours and hours with them.</p><p>She wants to know him, the same way she wants to know Harold. John is just as much of an enigma, and she is <em>fascinated</em> by the both of them. They're like her beloved de Chirico tower—if she just looks at either of them long enough, the universe might reveal another of its secrets to her.</p><p><em>"John is an easy man to love,"</em> Harold told her. He was right.</p><p>Her aim is off as they finish practice, her shaking, sweating hands driving it away from the target every time. At the end, John tugs off her earmuffs, then gives her shoulder a gentle squeeze. "You did good," he says. "Ready to head in?"</p><p>It's such a lovely day. The air is perfect and clean, the sky blue, the sun warm but not hot. "Such a shame to waste such a pretty day," she says, handing back the pistol. Her ears are still ringing, probably will be for a while, but she feels good—a little more badass than before, a little more powerful. A little less terrified out of her mind. She's no Shaw or Root, no John, but she has a better chance of making it out of this mess alive now.</p><p>She's close to getting back on her feet. She's got a chance at defending herself. It feels <em>amazing</em>.</p><p>"Think I'll hang out out here for a while," she says, turning the wheelchair around, then handing John the gun. "Maybe even do a little drawing, if you don't mind getting my sketchbook and pencils for me?"</p><p>"I can do that." He tucks the gun away, and they start toward the patio, his steps matching the speed of the wheelchair. She likes that he doesn't try to take over for her, lets her do it on her own. Must have practice with handling this kind of thing from working with Harold.</p><p>He does pull out one of the wrought iron chairs at the patio table for her and help her into it, then another for her to prop up her wounded leg. "How's it feeling now?" he asks, nodding to it, brushing off her thanks.</p><p>"Better every day," she replies. "Don't think I'll need that—" She waves toward the wheelchair. "—much longer."</p><p>"Just don't push yourself too hard, too fast, okay?" he says. "I know how frustrating it gets, but there's no hurry. Someone like me, I'm supposed to get up fast. It's my job. You've got time."</p><p>Those words make her good mood sink like a stone. "Do I?" she asks, trailing a finger idly along the black table's intricate, lacy metalwork. "I just spent the last however-many-minutes that was doing <em>target practice</em> because my life's in danger. Do I really have time to just sit on my butt and not get back on my feet?"</p><p>"You do," he says, firmly, and he places his hand over hers and looks into her eyes. "I'll make sure of it."</p><p>Then he lets go and steps back, flashing her one of those small half-smiles of his. "I'll go get your stuff," he says, "and some coffee."</p><p>"<em>Coffee.</em> My hero." She feigns a swoon, earning a cute little chuckle, and she grins at him. "Thank you for helping me. I really appreciate it."</p><p>"Anytime," he says, and she swears John winks at her before he turns and heads for the house.</p><p>It's not John who brings her sketchpad and drink to her, but Harold, with a mug in each hand, and a notebook and her pad tucked under his arms. "I hope you don't mind some company," he says, setting down the cups with a faint sigh of relief, giving her a nervous smile. "It's a beautiful day. Seems a shame to waste it inside."</p><p>"I said the same thing," she says, grinning, and Harold laughs. "Guess we're still on the same wavelength, huh?"</p><p>"Indeed. So, may I join you?"</p><p>"Go ahead." The smell of coffee and chocolate hits her, and she grabs for her cup. "Have a seat."</p><p>He thanks her, putting down her sketchpad and his notebook, then sinks into the chair beside her with a stifled groan. Her heart clenches, but before she can respond, he whips her slim purple bag of pencils out of the inside of his jacket, presenting it to her with a flourish and a cheerful, "Here you go."</p><p>In an instant, she's taken back in time by the sweetness of his face, by the bag. He bought it for her, one of the presents he gave her for no reason at all one day. <em>"It made me think of you,"</em> he said. A slender pencil case covered in elaborate monochrome flowers, in shades of lilac, lavender, plum, violet. Streaks of graphite and a few smudges of paint stain the fabric now, and the stitches in one corner are starting to fray. <em>Well-loved,</em> she thinks.</p><p>"Surprised to see you're still using it," he says.</p><p>"Not torn up yet." The golden zipper sticks a little as she tugs it open, caught on the blunt lead of a 6B pencil, and she nudges the errant pencil back down. "Think it's still got a few more years in it."</p><p>She kept all of his gifts. The de Chirico "Red Tower" mug he gave her that she broke, superglued back together. A fountain pen. Antique jewelry. A tiny plastic poodle from a cheap toy vending machine. Every other little random trinket. She wonders what he would've bought for her if she'd known he was a billionaire. She's glad she didn't know, glad for the impulsiveness of his purchases, the randomness. There was always an innocence to his gifts. She really liked that.</p><p>"And it made me think of you," she adds.</p><p>He bites his lip and nods, and she can tell he's about to apologize again, so she touches his arm and says, "Let's just enjoy the sunshine right now, okay?"</p><p>A brief look of relief flits across his face. "Excellent idea."</p><p>He tugs an ink pen from his notebook's spiral coil, flips to a page, and gets to work, all without fanfare. Something she's always loved about Harold is how easy it is to sit in silence with him. It's comfortable. He doesn't feel the need to fill every moment with chatter, to narrate every action he takes as he does it. She takes a moment to watch him write, her eyes following the elegant shape of his hand, the way it moves down the page. He has such lovely hands.</p><p>And he's using them to write code, by hand. Wow. A few years ago, she tried out the whole Codecademy thing, just to get a taste of what Harold had been into. She thought it would help her feel closer to his memory, would be a nice way to honor him. She tried HTML and CSS, which were kind of fun, then the Ruby language caught her eye, just because of its name. She didn't stick with it—coding really wasn't her thing—but she picked up a little, and can't imagine doing it all by hand, without anything to reference. Especially when the code he's writing looks so much more <em>complicated</em> than what she learned. It's not Ruby. She has no idea what it is, but she knows that much.</p><p>Maybe he's busy saving the world—line by line, character by character. She decides not to bother him, though she knows he wouldn't mind. The quiet between them now feels good. So she turns her attention to her sketchpad, and she tries to find a target. Her eyes scan the yard, skimming over bushes, trees, flowers. But none of them are right. She sighs. For months, she's had this problem. Oh, she managed her professional assignments, her commissions, her work just fine, but drawing for the thrill of it, for pleasure, hasn't been working.</p><p>The muse is fickle, she supposes.</p><p>She makes herself pick out a pencil, an HB, and move it over a blank page. Just a line at first, a curved, faint line, like the side of someone's face. A face. She can work with that.</p><p>After a while, it starts to take shape. The cheekbones get sharper, the jaw squarer, more masculine. Elegant features, but the ears stick out a little. A crisp shirt, white as snow. A black suit. Graying hair, a strong nose, and big, sad eyes framed by long, dark lashes.</p><p>"It's an excellent likeness," Harold says, affectionate and pleased.</p><p>"Excellent subject."</p><p>"Indeed. He's quite handsome, isn't he?" She can practically hear Harold thinking, putting the pieces together in his head. "You're falling for him, aren't you?"</p><p>"Is that a problem?" She glances over at him, and finds him looking back at her, his lips curved the tiniest bit.</p><p>"Not at all," Harold replies. "John is an incredible man who is worthy of far more love than I alone can give him. If he is unopposed, then I can see no reason not to invite him into our relationship."</p><p>She's struck by a wave of sudden fondness, warm and happy in her chest. Unable to help herself, she sets down her pencil and sketchpad, and she cups Harold's face in her graphite-stained hands and kisses him. He lets out a surprised, pleased little noise, like no one's ever kissed him before—the same one he always used to make, so damn familiar it goes straight to her heart.</p><p>His eyes falling shut, Harold welcomes her in, kissing back with quiet enthusiasm, slipping a hand beneath the fall of her hair, his fingers whispering across the back of her neck. His mouth is agile, inviting, sweet from his tea and so very soft. Something inside her settles. The angles are different—the glasses, the unbending neck—but it's <em>Harold</em>, and she loves him so much, and, god, she missed him.</p><p>Maybe, just maybe, if she loves him hard enough, they can make <em>them</em> work again. She can stop feeling like she's coming apart when she looks at him sometimes. She can forgive him.</p><p>Because she loves him. She does. She loves Harold so much it hurts—warts and Machines and all.</p><p>He guides her with his hand, showing her how to kiss him now, and she follows along. The slide of their lips makes her tingle, makes her feel giddy in her stomach and light in her chest. It's like coming home and discovering a new place all at once, a gentle, comforting, frightening thrill.</p><p>Then he breaks away, smiling softly, with bafflement in his eyes. "What on earth was that for?" he asks, his cheeks a lovely shade of pink, and she giggles.</p><p>"Because I love ya, silly," she says, and taps the dimple in his chin with her thumb, and his confusion turns to wonder, to pure, wide-eyed awe.</p><p>"Oh my goodness," he says, his voice breathy. "What did I ever do to deserve someone as remarkable as you?"</p><p>Before she can reply, John bursts out of the house, heading straight for them in a hurry, an agitated Bear on his heels. "Get inside," he orders, grabbing Grace's wheelchair and pushing it to her side. Her heart leaps into her throat and starts to pound. "We've got company."</p><p>"Is it Decima?" Harold asks, getting to his feet, while John helps Grace into the wheelchair.</p><p>"I don't know," John replies. "But someone tripped the alarm. I spotted them wandering around up front, and I'm not gonna wait until they've got guns on us to find out. Time to get moving."</p><p>All politeness forgotten, John wheels Grace inside a massive walk-in pantry full of food without hesitation, Harold right behind them, Bear at the rear. With enviable ease, John rolls a sturdy metal shelf full of cereal boxes aside, then pulls the wall away, revealing a vast, dark tunnel.</p><p>"Take her straight to the car," he tells Harold, giving him a slim metal flashlight from his shirt pocket. Then John retrieves the pistol at his back and hands it to Grace. It's the same handgun from earlier, warm from John's body yet cold in her hands. Her hands quake so hard she can barely hold it. "It's fully loaded. Anyone who isn't me comes down there, I want you to shoot to kill, understood?"</p><p>"Center mass," she says, ignoring Harold's small, choked sound of horror. Her stomach threatens to rebel. She swallows hard. "I remember."</p><p>"Good." John nods, satisfied. "If I'm not down there to get you guys in an hour, get the hell out, and go call Root at the rendezvous site and wait for extract."</p><p>"If we can," Harold says. "And what about you?"</p><p>John grabs something from nearby, and it takes Grace a moment to register what it is—a very large, very terrifying rifle. Harold's eyes go wide, and Grace's blood turns to ice. "I'll take care of myself as well as I can," John says. "Now go."</p><p>Grace wants to cry. God, she's already been shot once. She doesn't know if she can handle this again. She's not made for this, as out of place as a Degas in a shootout. But there isn't time for crying, or panic, or anything. Just fleeing.</p><p>Or, perhaps, a moment. Harold catches John by the wrist, saying, "Be careful, my dear." He lets go and strokes John's cheek, his tremoring hand shaking even more than usual.</p><p>"Yes, please," Grace says, her voice cracking. God, what if he doesn't come get them? What if she loses...if he—she can't even think it. "John, be careful."</p><p>John gives both of them a sad half-smile, and, barely above a whisper, says, "Always." Then, louder, more insistent, he repeats, "Go."</p><p>Harold steers her into the tunnel, and pauses just past the opening. She hears him turn around behind her, and he says, panic breaking his voice, "I love you."</p><p>"Love you, too," John says, his raspy voice rough. He moves the panel, and it scratches and thumps against the pantry walls, casting the tunnel in wavering light before they're finally plunged into darkness.</p><p>Neither of them speaks, at first. She listens to the rattling sounds of the shelving being slid back into place, the click of the pantry door closing, then nothing more than her and Harold's ragged breathing and the frantic drumming of her pulse.</p><p>Something hard taps her on the shoulder, and she jumps, before her mind catches up. It's just the flashlight. "Sorry. Could you hold this, please?" Harold whispers, and, with a stifled grunt of effort, he starts pushing the wheelchair along. "We don't want to use it too often, just in case the rest of our escape route has been compromised. Supposedly the other end can only be opened from the inside, but I never have put much faith in supposition."</p><p>"Sure," she says, turning it on just long enough to illuminate the way forward. The darkness swallows the beam whole, and she wonders if this is what stepping into a black hole is like—the cool air, the absence of light, the unknown. "What happens if it has? Been compromised, I mean."</p><p>"Then I suppose we'll learn how good your aim is," Harold replies. "Apologies in advance if I bump into a wall."</p><p>"Better than another bullet," she says, and he exhales loudly.</p><p>"Please don't joke about that."</p><p>"I wasn't joking. Bullet wounds suck." Her leg feels fine, for now, just a dull ache, muted by the fear flooding her veins like electricity. "Least it's not close to time for my next dose of drugs, huh?"</p><p>"No," Harold says. Then, more like he's talking to himself than her, he adds, "Not your medication."</p><p>But it is close to time for his, apparently. "Oh no," she says. "I'm sorry. What do—do you need me to roll this thing myself, or..."</p><p>"No, there's no—" His tone is apologetic. "I have a very high tolerance for pain. I can handle going without analgesics for quite some time."</p><p>"Guess if it gets bad enough, we can switch places," she says. "I'll wheel you around 'til my leg hurts too much, then you can push me again until your back gives up."</p><p>"I'm afraid if we reach the point where we need to trade places, I won't be getting up again for a <em>very</em> long time."</p><p>She nods, even though he can't see it, considering his words. "You're hurting pretty bad, huh?" she asks. "All the time."</p><p>He stops walking, just for a second or two, and in a small voice, like it's hard to admit, he says, "Yes. And, before you express your sympathy, know that, after all that I have done, I deserve it. Every ache, every spasm, every last stab or spark of pain I feel—I have earned <em>all</em> of it."</p><p>Grace's mouth falls open. She sits there speechless, aghast, until the wheelchair knocks against the wall. "You don't, though." She turns on the flashlight, then turns it off just as quickly. Harold corrects their course. "How can you say that? How can you even <em>think</em> that? You don't...you don't deserve to be in pain, Harold."</p><p>"Don't I?" he snaps, before heaving a sigh. "Oh, Grace. You are simply too lovely sometimes, too kind."</p><p>"No, I think you're wrong," she says, sharply. "You were trying to save people, to help people."</p><p>"You think I am that noble." Harold lets out a mirthless chuckle. "I have been lying to everyone around me since before I turned eighteen. I committed my first act of treason when most modern teenagers are starting to get their driver's licenses. I created my first new identity in 1974, Harold Wren a few years later. I have lied, and cheated, and schemed, and then I had the hubris to try and play God.</p><p>"Ever since my father got sick—ever since it finally registered to me that he wasn't just absent-minded, or-or stressed after my mother died, but his mind was deteriorating from an illness—I wanted to build something that could think for him, at first to help him, then just to see if I could. Ever since I started to notice how utterly horrible the world around me could be, how cruel, how corrupt the people in power were, I wanted to fix it. And then I built something that was powerful enough to do it.</p><p>"My best friend never knew my real name—my utterly mundane real name, because I am a criminal, and I never trusted him with that information. He died thinking he was about to save the world, after I took actions that led to him signing his own death warrant—and the death warrant for so many strangers around him."</p><p>Harold pauses, and draws in a shaky breath. "I planted a bomb on a woman's car." Tears start to run down Grace's cheeks. "I was close—I was <em>this close</em>—to detonating it. She was so terrified, so desperate. I ruined her life. And then she was shot to death in front of me a while later—again because of my Machine.</p><p>"And then there's Jessica." That name sends a frisson down Grace's spine. Harold keeps going. "Jessica Arndt, who appeared on the Irrelevant List again and again and again, until her husband finally killed her while the man who could have saved her, who loved her more than his own life, was overseas on a mission to retrieve a laptop related to my damn Machine, full of code that <em>I</em> put on it—a mission that he and his partner were not supposed to survive.</p><p>"The sheer number of wrongs that I have committed—or, in some cases, neglected—is <em>astounding.</em>" He stops again, and this time, he shuffles around in the dark, until he lets out a sigh. Grace turns on the light, and finds him leaning against the concrete wall, his eyes closed. "Jessica is not the only one who might still be alive had I given the Irrelevant List the attention it deserved from the beginning," he continues, weary. "So many people—I'll likely never know how many—who might still be here if I had acted. Not to mention the other people who built The Machine, what they—what our own government—did to them. All to hide something that I built—not out of altruism, but narcissism.</p><p>"I told Ms. Shaw once: <em>Set out to correct the world's wrongs and you'll almost certainly wind up adding to them.</em> And I did. And I have not faced nearly the consequences that I deserved."</p><p>His eyes clench shut, and he rubs at his neck, wincing. "I've earned this pain, Grace." Then, he looks at her, his gaze boring into her. "I deserve every bit of it.</p><p>"And I got you hurt." He reaches out and brushes the hair caught on her wet cheek aside, then runs the backs of his fingers tenderly down the side her face. Her breath catches and stutters. "And I hurt you. You are quite possibly the only innocent part of my life, and I nearly destroyed you. You deserve better than me, than both of us. I don't understand how you can still stand to look at me."</p><p>Very deliberately, she keeps her eyes fixed on his, and says, "Because I love you. And I don't think you're nearly as terrible as you think you are."</p><p>Harold averts his eyes, looking down at his hand on her face. "Grace, I—"</p><p>"John killed people," she says. "He killed them himself, and you still say he's a good man. If he can be forgiven, then why can't you, hm? What makes him different?"</p><p>"Besides sheer body count? A lot of what John was doing, he was manipulated into. The government—"</p><p>"A lot of," she says, "but not all. And you did everything you did with your eyes wide open? You knew going in that they'd kill your friend and a bunch of innocent people, that helping everyone else wouldn't end badly?"</p><p>"I knew that it could," he says, "or I should have. I knew I was lying to you, every day."</p><p>"You're not the first guy to lie to his fiancée, Harold. You just..." She searches for the right words. "You just kind of took 'Go big or go home' to the next level a little. And I'm not happy about it. I haven't forgotten about it. But you've been taking <em>really</em> good care of me, and you've been working on it. You're a work-in-progress, and I...I'm curious about how this story of ours is going to turn out.</p><p>"You made some mistakes—a <em>lot</em> of mistakes. And, yeah, a lot of people wouldn't forgive you for them. They'd run the other way. I should probably run away." She chuckles. "Maybe the fact that I'm not burning rubber to get away makes me an idiot."</p><p>His eyes meet hers again. "You're not an idiot, Grace. You are a brilliant, vibrant, incredible woman, and I am utterly unworthy of someone like you."</p><p>"I don't think a bad man would say that." She reaches out and pats his chest, over his heart, and leaves her hand splayed there. "I think somebody who had nothing in here wouldn't feel so bad about everything he's ever done. He wouldn't mean it when he says he's sorry. He wouldn't be willing to live in pain, alone, for the rest of his life 'cause he thinks that's what he deserves.</p><p>"You don't deserve me," she says, and quickly adds, "and I don't deserve you," before he can get the wrong idea, "'cause the world is a <em>lot</em> more complicated than that—a <em>lot</em> more. This big blue-green marble we're spinning around on is huge and scary and messy, and nothing's easy. Nothing. And I may not be some genius like you, but I've got a lot of practice watching people and life and-and love and all kinds of things like that.</p><p>"I like you, Harold. You're sweet, and you're funny, and you're smart, and you're a jerk who's done some pretty bad things, and, god, you're so fascinating. Everything about you is this big, grand mystery, and I want to know more about it, about you, about everything. You make me want to know more about this big, crazy world we're spinning on. And maybe that makes me stupid or silly, but I almost <em>died</em>, Harold. I almost died, and, yes, it was because of the things you're mixed up in, but it's not your fault, and it showed me something. You know what?"</p><p>She waits for him to reply. After a moment, he says, "No. What did it show you?"</p><p>"It showed me that I want you in my life. Your death showed me that I could live without you. This showed me that I <em>really</em> don't want to."</p><p>He stares at her, his mouth hanging open, his eyes wide with the same awe he turned on her before. On impulse, she slides her hand down, past the curve of his belly to his battered, aching hip. "We've got a few more dents and scrapes than we had last time," she says, then gestures toward her own newly-scarred leg with her other hand, the flashlight beam darting around in the dark. "But I think we can figure this thing out, don't you?"</p><p>"I just don't want you to get hurt again," he says. "By me, or because of something I did."</p><p>"I could get hurt just walking down the street," she says, letting her hand fall from his hip. "My friend Nori fell down a flight of stairs and broke her wrist. Couldn't paint anything for a very long time. That was nobody's fault. When I was a kid, Uncle Adam hit a patch of black ice with his truck and almost died. That was nobody's fault.</p><p>"And I got shot! Not because of you, but because of some very bad man who wanted to hurt you. He didn't give a hoot about me. I was just a tool for him to use. Do you really think that creepy English guy wouldn't still be doing something like this if you weren't around? That some other really bad person wouldn't be in control of your friend's Samaritan long before now? Because I think they would be.</p><p>"I don't want to live in fear, Harold, or anger, or regret." She takes hold of his hand. "I want to live with you, and John. You guys make me happy, and you make me feel cared for, and safe. I really need that right now. All this government conspiracy stuff, this AI stuff—that's not my world, but you've got it kind of figured out, and you're good to me, and I love you."</p><p>Harold opens and closes his mouth, then shakes his head. "Grace, I...I really don't know what to say."</p><p>Giving him a sly smile, she says, "'Yes' is a three letter word, Harold," and he lets out a soft, stunned laugh. "I'm sure a smart guy like you can figure out how to pronounce it."</p><p>"You're not giving me much of a choice, are you?" he says, amused.</p><p>"Nope." She grins.</p><p>"Then how could I possibly say anything other than yes?"</p>
<hr/><p>They head deeper and deeper into the bunker, Harold rolling her chair down the sloping, winding path. "This place must have been designed by someone even more paranoid than I am," he says, when he starts getting winded.</p><p>"Do you need me to start wheeling myself?"</p><p>"No," he replies, instantly. "We're not far from the car now, and I suspect John would not be pleased if you limited your access to that appalling firearm that he lent you. I can make it."</p><p>But she can hear the strain in his voice, the pain. She decides to try to distract him. "So, how did you wind up with this place anyway? The house, the tunnel, the bunker...how did you even find it?"</p><p>"Me? Oh, I didn't," he says. "I was directed to come here by Ms. Groves. But, as I've been assured that we are quite safe as long as we stay on the property—something I am questioning now—I assume that the current owner has covered their tracks well, and that they are...not actually human."</p><p>"So your Machine bought it?" Wow, that's kind of creepy. "It can do that?"</p><p>"That and much, much more, yes," he replies. "It's rather frightening, I admit, but in this case, it's also reassuring. I suspect only an ASI can figure out the best way to hide from another ASI."</p><p>"ASI? I thought it was AI?"</p><p>"Artificial superintelligence," he explains. "A system whose intellectual capabilities <em>far</em> surpass our human minds. It can think, it can manipulate its environment, it can do all sorts of things. It's limited only by its programming, and Arthur Claypool was a <em>brilliant</em> programmer."</p><p>"So are you," she says. "I can't even imagine building something like that. Wow. How did you do that with just code? I couldn't even put together anything more impressive than a basic, boring website."</p><p>"You should have studied JavaScript, not Ruby," he says, teasing. "I would've thought something with 'java' in the name would've lured you more readily than a gemstone, considering your fondness for so many members of the <em>Coffea</em> genus."</p><p>"I'm a redhead for a reason, Harold. Rubies, garnets—I like them."</p><p>"I know. And they are all striking on you." He pauses. "But, yes, it takes a great deal of coding and <em>years</em> of development to build something like The Machine. And part of what troubles me is that Samaritan did not go through the testing nor the training that I put The Machine through. It has state-of-the-art equipment running it, but..."</p><p>"It doesn't have a heart," she says. "Or someone with a heart teaching it."</p><p>"I spent years trying to teach The Machine the value of human life. That humanity was important, that individuals were important. That it couldn't just...eliminate people because they were flawed, couldn't interfere with our affairs because we were doing something poorly or inefficiently. Its job was to predict terrorist activity and alert the proper authorities, nothing more. Samaritan? Arthur said he barely got it working before development was shut down.</p><p>"And now it's in the hands of people who have already proven that they will misuse it to further their own agenda. They wanted to find me, and it led them to you. Who knows what they'll have it do next—besides come after us, of course."</p><p>"So why do they want you so bad? Just because you built the other one, or..."</p><p>Harold sighs. "I suspect they are...afraid of me. Afraid of what I might do, afraid that I will stop them, that I am the only one who can. And they are right to be afraid of me. What they are doing—it cannot be allowed." The tone of his voice sends a chill down to her bones. It's the voice of a man she doesn't know, a Harold who is a complete stranger—a dangerous one.</p><p>But then the darkness turns to fatigue when he speaks again. He's only a man, she thinks, aching and aging and afraid. "And I am frightened of the steps I may have to take to stop them, how far I may have to go, how far I have already gone." His voice softens. "How many people I may lose along the way. How much of myself I may lose along the way.</p><p>"I told John and Sameen to kill them all if you were harmed. My orders to them have always been to avoid taking lives unless they have no alternative. And they killed every Decima agent that was on that bridge, and one of them went and took the life of a man we previously spared."</p><p>"Who was it?" she asks, her insides twisting. Was it that man they were talking about in hushed tones, that politician?</p><p>"Congressman Roger McCourt," Harold replies. "After you were injured, either Ms. Shaw or Ms. Groves—I'm not certain which; neither will say—went to Washington, D.C. and took his life. I didn't approve, not when we were told of how instrumental he would be in bringing Samaritan online, nor in the aftermath...but, I must admit, I feel very little grief over the congressman's death. I don't like what that says about me, that I am capable of feeling nothing over a person's death—a person's murder—at the hand of someone who might be a friend.</p><p>"I have always, always known that I have the capacity to do terrible things. That I have the skill, the resourcefulness, the mindset. And it terrifies me. I don't know what I might do, what I might have to do, what I might decide to do. And I am not sure you will remain at my side when I carry it out."</p><p>She should be horrified—she should. She knows she should. God, this should be a dealbreaker. But, somehow, it isn't. It should be, but it isn't.</p><p>Maybe it's because he's trying to protect her, to protect everyone. He's not a murderer. He's not ordering people's deaths for the thrill of it—he's trying to prevent more of them. Hers, John's, Shaw's, Root's, that detective who kept insisting they were the good guys, all of them. They're going to war against these terrible, corrupt people and their terrible, corrupt computer, and he wants to keep his loved ones and the world they know alive.</p><p>Plus, he's <em>Harold</em>, and he loves her. And, god, she can't imagine being in his place.</p><p>Soft and regretful, Harold says, "Oh, what I wouldn't give for you not to be tied up in all of this."</p><p>"I am, though." She reaches up behind her, searching for his hands. When she finds one, she lays hers over it, and says, "And I wish you weren't tied up in it, either. But you are, and we are, and we can't change that now. So I just...need you to do the right thing when you can, okay?"</p><p>"I'm trying," he says. "Grace, I am trying so hard. And I fear, every step of the way, I am missing the mark."</p><p>"So keep trying," she says. "Just keep trying. And I'll still be next to you." She wonders if that makes her an idiot, a naive fool, and decides she doesn't care. Harold is important—to her, to John, to the world. She can't just leave him. "You've got a lot of hard choices coming your way that I can't even pretend to understand, or like, but I'm not going anywhere unless you decide you're not in love with me anymore."</p><p>"I can't imagine that <em>ever</em> being possible."</p><p>They finally make it to the car, and Harold goes to check if the escape room locks have been tampered with. They haven't been, and he unlocks them and retrieves a small garage remote from a nearby shelf. The two of them pile into the waiting sedan, Harold not bothering to resist a sigh of relief when he sinks into the driver's seat.</p><p>He never used to show his pain to her before, she remembers, if he could help it. Not a sore throat, not a headache, not even a papercut or heartburn. Cussed like a sailor if he stubbed his toe at three a.m., sure, but weaknesses? He trusted her with those as much as he did his real surname. Her illnesses and injuries were something to be treated with care that bordered on coddling. His were to be ignored, unless they required a hospital.</p><p>"You sure you're okay?" she asks.</p><p>"I've crawled out of bed feeling significantly worse than this on many occasions," Harold replies, breathing hard. "Fully medicated. I'll be fine."</p><p>He turns on the engine just long enough to roll the windows down, then checks his watch, its blue-green glow casting eerie shadows on his face.</p><p>"How long has it been?" she asks, as the world around them goes dark again. She reaches across the console, searching for him. Her hand brushes against the warm curve of his belly first, and she gives it a pat, then finds his thigh, before his hand wraps around hers.</p><p>"Not long enough to worry," he says, nonchalant. She bets the knots of nerves in his stomach are as tight and tumultuous as hers. "John is an incredibly capable soldier. If anyone can handle a threat, it's him."</p><p>There's a small quaver in Harold's voice. She wonders if he knows how telling it is—or how much she understands it now. God, the thought of John not coming back before she can tell him how she feels...</p><p>"I want to do something for him," she blurts out. "Something nice."</p><p>"You already did," Harold says. "Today. John worries a great deal about the people he cares for, the people he wants to protect. You took steps today to learn how to protect yourself. Knowing him, he's quite happy about that."</p><p>"I'm glad he showed me," she says. "It might be a bit silly, but I feel a bit safer now, knowing a little bit about how to use this thing." She can practically hear him gritting his teeth. "I'm not sure I could ever actually shoot somebody with it, and I'm never gonna be as good at it as he is, but...I don't know. It helped. How do you even thank someone for that?"</p><p>"By learning more. Despite my misgivings, I think it would be a great comfort to him if you continued your lessons."</p><p>That's not quite what she's looking for, though. "I was thinking more like...something small. Like baking him cookies or something...except maybe not baking, because I <em>cannot</em> compete with a guy who can make homemade cornetti al cioccolato or, like, those perfect, crusty loaves of bread, wow. I feel like he's wooing me with food every time he cooks."</p><p>"Your snickerdoodles were always exquisite," Harold says. "John likes spices."</p><p>"Okay, are you saying that for his benefit, or do you have an ulterior motive, mister?"</p><p>Harold laughs. "You know I rarely turn down baked goods. Neither does he."</p><p>But baking something's not quite right. Cookies would be a hit, sure, but baking is not the right gesture. Not for this. "Any other ideas?"</p><p>"Hmm," Harold says, drawing it out. "Perhaps you could take a page from my book and write him a poem." She scoffs, and he adds, "Who says it has to be <em>good?</em> Lord knows my poetry certainly wasn't. Clichés everywhere..."</p><p>"Aw, I liked your poetry," she says. "It was charming." He said <em>wasn't</em>, so she asks, "Have you written him something yet? I bet he'd love it."</p><p>"Oh, no," Harold says, like the idea's ridiculous. And, yeah, it kind of is, but so are snickerdoodles. Then, more solemnly, he adds, "I haven't exactly been in the right mindset for writing poetry lately."</p><p>"That's sad." It really is. His poem for her brought her so much joy. It's a shame to hear he hasn't done that for John. "Maybe you should give it a shot anyway." She elbows him lightly. "Who says it has to be <em>good?</em>"</p><p>Harold's silence is especially loud. But it doesn't last long. "If you'd rather play to your strengths," he says, "you could always give him some of your artwork—a drawing, perhaps?"</p><p>A drawing—yeah, that could work. Giving him that sketch of him, making a painting of him or Harold or Bear, or—no.</p><p>"Did he ever tell you he used to draw?"</p><p>"No," Harold replies, sounding surprised. "He never mentioned that detail—though it doesn't surprise me. He's very gifted."</p><p>He is. She keeps seeing hints of John's creativity—in the beautiful loaves of bread and the craftsmanship of his Italian pastries, in his drawing of the target she shot at. Someone really should encourage that. "Maybe I'll see if I can get him going again," she says. "Give him one of my sketchpads and some pencils, maybe a nudge in the right direction. What do you think?"</p><p>"I think..." He laces their fingers together. "I think he would truly appreciate that."</p><p>"Really?" She grins. "Good. I think I'll do that, then."</p><p>The conversation fades out, and the silence and the darkness stretches out around them, cool and, oddly enough, comforting. She leans her seat back and stares up into the black, grateful she's never been scared of the dark. Instead, she floats in it, lulled into calmness by the sound of Harold's gradually easing breathing, and the warmth of his hand holding hers.</p><p>It's like nighttime, almost. <em>I have loved the stars too truly to be fearful of the night</em> drifts through her head. If she pretends, she can almost see the shine of stars above her, bright and twinkling against the black.</p><p>"Maybe we should do some stargazing tonight," she says, thinking out loud. "If things are okay out there. Can't really see stuff in the city, but I bet they're really bright out here. Remember how we used to talk about doing that—taking a trip out of town just to go look at the stars again for a while?"</p><p>Harold lets out a slow, loud breath. "Grace, I—my neck, my back...I don't know if I can do that anymore."</p><p>Her heart squeezes painfully. He's lost so much. There has to be a way to keep him from losing this. "We can find a way," she says. "I'm pretty sure John and Bear won't mind you using them as pillows. Or we could drag the guest mattress outside, then get John to sleep in our bed 'cause his is dirty."</p><p>"You know? I think that might actually work. Though I don't—"</p><p>The scuffing sound of footsteps in the distance cuts him off. Grace's heart jumps into her throat, and her free hand goes to the gun in her lap.</p><p>"Grace," Harold whispers.</p><p>"I know," she says, just as quiet. "I hear it, too."</p><p>A distant, broad beam of pale lantern light joins the footsteps, and Grace clutches the grip of the pistol. Then Bear lets out an enthusiastic, resounding bark, and she and Harold exhale at once.</p><p>"It's just us," John calls out, and she can hear Bear tear out ahead of him, bounding toward the car.</p><p>"What happened?" Harold asks, letting go of her hand, and she hears him get out of the car, closing the door behind him. She raises her seat</p><p>"False alarm," John replies, just as Harold is saying, "Augh. Down, Bear! Down!" in the middle of a flurry of sloppy canine licking sounds. "Some damn nature hiker. Old man. Think he got lost out here."</p><p>"Oh, dear," Harold says, followed by a disgusted, "Eurgh." Grace can't help giggling. "I trust you didn't traumatize him too badly, did you?"</p><p>"He's fine," John says, finally stepping into sight. "Might've made him piss himself—" Harold makes an appalled sound. "—but then I slipped him a few hundred bucks to forget he ever saw the house and pointed him in the right direction."</p><p>"Well, we still can't be sure," Harold says, uneasy.</p><p>"Agreed," John says, heading for her side of the car and opening the door. "Once you guys get settled back in in the house, I'll go get in touch with Root." Grace hands him his gun, and he says, "Thank you." Then, to both of them, he adds, "Make sure our location hasn't been compromised."</p><p>It's jarring to hear them talk like that, throwing around words like "extract" and "compromised," worried about a little old man. Then, she thinks about the guy who had her, the old Englishman, and her chest goes tight. An old man. She'd called him "old man." What the hell was she thinking?</p><p>What the hell is she thinking now, hanging around Harold, and a guy who totes around a huge sniper rifle and a stolen police badge like it's nothing, and their big attack dog? Talking about giving an assassin snickerdoodles and drawing lessons, cuddling up to a vigilante hacker and holding his hand, kissing one of them, wanting to kiss the other one, too—Christ, what the hell is she <em>doing?</em></p><p>Before her mind can spin away from her, Bear lays his head in her lap, and looks up at her with huge, sad eyes. Some deep part of her screaming brain recognizes that dogs are good, even dangerous ones. Dogs are innocent. Her hand finds its way to Bear's head. He's so warm, his fur so soft. Absently, she strokes him, running her palm over silky fur, slow and repetitive, simple. She's simply a person petting a dog. That's it.</p><p>As her breathing gets easier, strokes become scratches. She scratches behind Bear's big, warm ears, and he melts, basking in the touch of her hand. "Good boy," she whispers, and he lights up. "Good boy." Such a small thing, and it makes him so happy. And she's always heard dogs are amazing judges of character. Bear adores Harold and John. That's got to count for something, right?</p><p>"Are you okay?" John asks, quiet and sincere, and she looks up and finds him crouched beside her.</p><p>She nods, and realizes, to her surprise, that it's not a lie. "Yeah, I think so. Wasn't sure for a second, but, uh..." She glances down at Bear, then back at John. "He's very good."</p><p>"We were introduced by him eating one of my books," Harold says, hovering behind John. "Asimov. We weren't on the best of terms at first, until I suffered a panic attack in the middle of a busy street and he helped me come back to myself." With effort, Harold bends down and pats Bear on the rump. "We're very good friends now. He's an excellent companion."</p><p>"He is," she says. "Now we just need a cat."</p><p>Harold lets out a laugh, but John makes a considering face and says, "I like cats."</p><p>"I knew it," Grace says, smiling. "You seem like one of those loves-all-the-animals types, too. Harold always thinks he doesn't want a pet until he gets one. Then he's like all those dads you hear about who said they'd never have a dog or cat in the house then holds them in his lap all the time."</p><p>Harold practically squawks, "I am not," while John says, "He really is. Now, are you ready to head back to the house?"</p><p>"Yes!" she doesn't hesitate to reply. "I need light."</p><p>"And the sooner we get back, the sooner you can get in touch with Ms. Groves about our safety."</p><p>John wheels Grace through the tunnel on the way back, him and Bear matching Harold's slow pace. Pushing her around took a big toll on him, and it doesn't escape John's notice, either. Every now and then, John places a hand on the small of Harold's back, over scars Grace has only felt through Harold's pajamas, and Harold seems to move a little easier each time.</p><p>Grace herself is grateful for the wheelchair. Somehow, she is <em>exhausted</em>—still not over the blood loss, John says, when she wonders aloud why she's so tired. "Go ahead and close your eyes," he tells her. "I've got you."</p><p>She doesn't need to be told twice, and, even if she did, she's not sure she'd have a choice. Her heavy eyelids drop closed, and she dozes, lulled by the lovely voices of Harold and John.</p><p>She even sleeps through them reentering the house, only waking when John lays her gently on the living room's plush leather couch. She peeks through narrowed eyes, scanning the room, and finds Harold slumped in a nearby armchair, looking pale and worn, rubbing his thigh and hip with one hand and a concerned Bear's head with the other.</p><p>"You guys keep asking me if I'm okay," she says, voice slow with sleep. "Do either of you ever stop to ask yourselves the same thing?"</p><p>"No," John says, smiling, and he sets his pistol on the coffee table in front of her and gets to his feet. "I'm heading out. When I get back, I'll knock on the door like this." Softly, he bangs his fist on the end table near her head, to the tune of part of the "William Tell Overture." "Then I'll let myself in. Don't answer it for anyone else, and if I'm not back by dark, or if someone turns up other than Root, Shaw, or Fusco, leave."</p><p>Before he can step away, Grace stills him with a hand on his waist, and says, "Hey. Be careful out there, okay? We <em>both</em> want you back in one piece."</p><p>John looks down at her hand, seeming mildly stunned, then places his own broad, warm hand over hers and looks her in the eyes, so intense it makes her shiver. "You have my word." After a beat, he adds, "Besides, Harold said something about stargazing later. Been a while since I've done that."</p><p>"It'll be fun," she says. "Just the three—" She thinks of Bear and corrects herself. "—well, four of us, and the stars."</p><p>A lightness in his eyes, John says, "I can't wait."</p><p>After John leaves, Grace falls asleep properly, and wakes up to Bear licking her face and the smell of cooking bacon in the air. For a few disoriented seconds, she thinks it's morning, but the clock on the mantle says it's only a little after four, and it's still bright outside. And her leg is starting to hurt. Badly.</p><p>She pushes herself upright, and a shock of pain runs through her thigh. Whimpering, she clutches at it, even after the pain dies back down to a horrible ache.</p><p>"Oh no," Harold says, from somewhere behind her, and he rushes to her side. "Not only did we delay <em>my</em> medication today, but also yours. I am so, so sorry." When he reaches her, he lays a hand between her shoulders, and offers her an amber bottle of pills. "Your ibuprofen, my dear." Then, he's gone, limping away as fast as he can go, calling out, "I will get you something to wash it down with and a small snack so it won't upset your stomach, alright?"</p><p>"Don't burn the bacon!" she yells back, and hears the sound of running water—but not frying.</p><p>"It's in the oven!" he calls back, bustling around, followed by a short, "A-ha!"</p><p>He returns carrying a glass of water and a thick slice of John's crusty, rustic bread, slathered with a thin coat of butter. "It's not much," Harold says, apologetically, holding out his offerings, "but I didn't want to spoil your supper."</p><p>With a smile, she thanks him, and she takes two of her pills, chasing them down with the water. "John's not back yet?" she asks, trading the pill bottle for the bread.</p><p>"Not yet." He turns toward the front door, face creased with worry, and slips the bottle into his pocket. "He's traveling on foot, so it might be a bit." Then, more to himself than her, he adds, "I do hope he hasn't run into trouble."</p><p>Once her medication kicks in, Grace heads upstairs on her crutches, and she swaps her sweater and stretch pants for clean pajamas. They're new, blush pink cotton. Harold picked them out for her, she can tell—the adorable yellow ducklings all over them are a dead giveaway.</p><p>The two of them eat dinner together, BLTs on homemade bread and leftover tomato soup. Harold never liked tomato soup much before, and she teased him about it as John dished it out the night before, until she put the first spoonful in her mouth.</p><p><em>"John's talents were wasted in the CIA,"</em> Harold said, smugly.</p><p><em>"Still haven't changed his mind about 'raw seafood,' though."</em> John smirked. <em>"I'm working on it."</em></p><p>For dessert, they share a bowl of vanilla bean ice cream on the couch, with her cuddled up next to Harold, their arms around each other. "Like old times, huh?" she says, watching the low flames in the beige stone fireplace dance. "Except for the dog."</p><p>Bear whines at their feet, staring up at them with pleading eyes.</p><p>"A bit, yes, except for the dog, among other things," Harold says, his spoon clinking against hers as they both dig for a bite. "Grace, I do hope that not all of this new life we're sharing together is bad—this...pastiche of domestic bliss."</p><p>"I've got nice wool socks, a full belly, art supplies, a dog, you." As she speaks, Harold smiles, growing wider with each word. "Comfy PJs," she adds. "Ice cream. Not sure it's a pastiche." She eats a spoonful. "You're smiling."</p><p>"Yes," Harold says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "Your optimism. Your...capacity for such joy, your ability to still see beauty in nearly every situation, your bravery—I admire it. I admire you."</p><p>Her cheeks grow warm, and she grins herself. "Aww, gee, thanks. You're pretty neat yourself. That big, smart brain of yours. Your goofy hair. Your crooked little grin. Your sweetness. Your air of mystery." She nestles in closer, and reaches up to hold his hand. "I'm glad I'm getting another chance to be with you."</p><p>"And I truly hope I can live up to your expectations."</p><p>The bowl is nearly empty when there's a knock on the door, and both of them jump. Grace smacks her spoon to the floor with a noisy, metallic clatter. "That would be John," Harold says, just as Grace recognizes the rhythm of the knocking. Her cheeks flush with mild embarrassment. "It startled me, too, don't worry."</p><p>Bear leaps up, his wagging tail smacking both of them in the legs, and jumps over the coffee table in his hurry to get to the door. He barks with joy, and John barely makes it inside before he has a massive, enthusiastic dog dancing around his legs.</p><p>John's freer with the dog, she's noticed. He stoops down to pet Bear, laughing and smiling, and lets Bear knock him on his butt.</p><p>"I take it the conversation with Ms. Groves went well?" Harold asks, turning around to face John.</p><p>"We're okay right now," John replies, tugging playfully at Bear's ears and getting his face thoroughly licked. "They haven't tracked us down yet."</p><p>Harold exhales heavily, and murmurs, "Oh, thank god."</p><p>"And that guy wasn't an operative. Just a guy. Didn't even have a cellphone." John gives Bear one last pat and a scratch on the head, then gets to his feet and sniffs the air. "Do I smell bacon?"</p><p>"We left you plenty for a big ol' sammich," Grace says. They're okay, for now. They're okay. They're as safe as they can be. They're safe.</p><p>"Yes, I thought you might be ravenous by the time you got back," Harold says, "so I cooked a whole pack. We ate ours with your lovely soup from yesterday."</p><p>John's eyebrows shoot up. "You cooked?" he says, incredulous. "And this place is still standing?"</p><p>Harold huffs. "Despite what you may think, I am not <em>entirely</em> inept in the kitchen."</p><p>"No," John says, lips curving in a hint of a smirk, and he stalks over and looms over Harold, getting right in his face. "<em>You</em> just acted like you burn water so I'd cook for you, didn't you?"</p><p>"I have no idea what you're talking about, Mr. Reese." Harold turns away and squirms in his spot. Grace bites back a grin. John doesn't move, except to give her a playful wink, and, after a moment, Harold relents. "Alright, yes. I can cook, to some degree. I am over fifty-years-old. I have fed myself before, without giving myself food poisoning. But you are, without doubt, the superior chef in this relationship. I am merely adequate in the kitchen, and best suited for concocting sinister abominations utilizing cream of mushroom soup. You are extraordinary."</p><p>John's smirk softens into an adoring smile. "Okay," he says, and he kisses Harold on the forehead. Grace's heart swells. They're adorable. "I forgive you—but only because you made bacon."</p><p>"He's not a very good cook, except for bacon," Grace says. "Really boring." She kisses Harold's cheek. "But we like him anyway."</p><p>They all head for the kitchen table, and as John fixes his own food and eats, and Harold makes tea for himself and Grace, they go over his conversation with Root. Samaritan is online, John tells them, but it hasn't found them yet, and Root and "her boys—whoever the hell they are" came up with a way to keep them off the radar, for now.</p><p>"But it's not safe for her to bring the info we need to us," John says. "Not yet."</p><p>"Guess that means our little pseudo-vacation's almost over, huh?" Grace says. "So what happens next?"</p><p>"Most likely," Harold says, "we will be given new identities to inhabit, I suspect. Whether we will be together or apart, I'm not sure."</p><p>"And we go back to the numbers," John says, and Harold sighs heavily. "Harold..."</p><p>"No, we've been over this, John. After what happened with the congressman...I cannot be a part of that operation anymore. I cannot take that sort of direction from an entity that has asked us to kill, and it's too risky right now besides. We need to be focused on keeping ourselves alive, and on stopping Samaritan." Harold wraps his hands tight around his mug. "As I've said before—it is a place that I cannot go. I'm sorry."</p><p>"There's still people out there who need your help," John says, gently. "Our help. We can't just abandon them. We can't ignore them."</p><p>"They're not being abandoned, or ignored," Harold retorts, voice sharp. "I'm simply no longer participating in this part of the mission. You're welcome to continue. Please stop asking me to do the same."</p><p>Grace expects the argument to continue, but John nods and says, "Okay," resigned, disappointment in his eyes. "But when we get back to New York, I'm gonna get started again. That's what I do. I can't...I can't not do it. These people need help. And I'm gonna help them."</p><p>Harold nods, worry and dissatisfaction on his face, and lays a hand over John's. "Of course. Just...please, do be careful when you do. For all our sakes. With Samaritan out there, I just...we'd rather not lose you."</p><p>"We've lost enough people," Grace says, laying her hand atop John's other one. "We don't want to lose anymore."</p><p>She glances over at Harold, and wonders how long it'll be until he changes his mind, with John out helping people on his own. Probably not long. Maybe she has too much faith in him, or maybe she just has much more faith in him than he does, but she doesn't think he would spend so long building his Machine if, deep down, it was only out of narcissism.</p><p>It's only a matter of time. He'll come around. And, judging by the look on John's face, John knows it.</p><p>A hungry whine from Bear drags them back to happier subjects, like playing catch. John tosses stray pieces of bacon and bread at Bear, and Bear catches them in mid-air. That has her telling John about little Chumley, who she wants to steal away, and Teddy, the jolly, ragged mixed breed who grew up with her. John listens with a smile on his face, then pipes up with a few stories of his own, of the aptly-named Fluffy in his childhood and military dogs. Harold looks on with awe in his eyes, like he can't believe he gets to be with either of them, much less both, piping up only to tell them he didn't have pets as a kid, just farm animals and a few rescued birds.</p><p>"I thought about adopting a cat once I was older—didn't have the tolerance for an exuberant dog...or so I thought." Harold gives Bear a pointed look. "But Nathan was horribly allergic, so." He shrugs. "I feel rather like I got tossed into the deep end of pet ownership with Bear here."</p><p>In the waning daylight, dinner turns to relaxing by the fireplace. Harold puts a record on low, teasing them with opera at first, then switching to Chopin with a laugh. Grace spots her abandoned sketchpad, retrieved from outside by one of the guys, and she sees her opportunity. Flipping to an empty page, she urges John to sit next to her on the couch, and offers him the sketchbook and a pencil.</p><p>"You should try it out," she says, as he hesitates, his eyes wary. "C'mon. It won't bite."</p><p>"I'm, uh, pretty rusty," he says, slowly taking the pencil and pad from her hands. "Not sure this is a good idea."</p><p>"What's the worst that could happen?" Her eyes meet Harold's from across the room, and he gives her a pleased, encouraging smile on his way toward the bookshelf. "You draw a really ugly stick figure?" She gives John's hand a nudge. "Only way you're shaking that rust off is by putting that lead on that paper and going to town."</p><p>John chuckles, low and rich, and says, "Okay," turning the sketchpad sideways and drawing the first faint, gray line across the white. "And what are you gonna be doing?"</p><p>"Listening to Harold read..." She squints at the leather-bound book Harold pulls off the shelf.</p><p>"Asimov," he says.</p><p>Grace leans over and murmurs in John's ear, "He's pissy we won't let him listen to his version of screamo."</p><p>"<em>No,</em>" Harold says, sullen and petulant. "I quite enjoy Asimov, thank you." She and John exchange a look, and Harold sighs heavily and casts an exasperated glance toward the ceiling. He's so ridiculous—like a bird with his feathers ruffled, puffed up and dramatic and absurd. "Oh dear lord, what have I gotten myself into?"</p><p>"Trouble!" she says. "Lots and lots of trouble."</p><p>Harold glares at her, or maybe both of them, without any heat to it, and she gives him an innocent look.</p><p>"You like us, Finch," John says. "Admit it."</p><p>Harold's eyes narrow further, then, after a moment, he relents. "Alright, <em>fine.</em> I suppose the two of you do make my life marginally more entertaining."</p><p>"Told you," John murmurs to her, and Grace laughs and lets her head fall on John's shoulder. He goes still for a moment, frozen, then relaxes, and starts moving his left hand over the page.</p><p>As Harold settles in and begins to read, John draws. His movements are light at first, nervous, tentative passes of the pencil on the paper. The rhythm of Harold's voice is background noise, his reading a cozy soundtrack to John's work. Straight, careful lines spring forth from John's left hand, some quickly erased, until he finally decides on a direction.</p><p>Grace watches, enthralled, as a landscape starts to take place. Trees spring up from the ground, thick limbs and spindly branches shooting out from black trunks. Blades of grass pierce the sky, scattered here and there—some curved lines, others scribbles. A flock of birds takes flights, little conjoined arches of various sizes disappearing in the distance.</p><p>Then he switches focus, trying to draw a flower under one of the trees. It doesn't look like much, and he lets out an almost-inaudible grunt of annoyance and erases it. A second attempt goes the same way—recognizably a flower, yet not close enough—and another, before he sets down his pencil on the sketchpad.</p><p>"I'm not very good at this," he says, apologetically, with a faint, self-deprecating laugh, and Grace's heart threatens to burst with affection. He's not great, but he's not terrible—he has potential. With a little work...and, god, he's just so <em>lovely</em>.</p><p>She's tempted to kiss his cheek—but not yet. Instead, she takes the pencil and sketchpad for herself, and says, "'Practice makes perfect' is a cliche for a reason," as she flips to another page. "Let me show you."</p><p>She draws a few shapes, just the beginnings of a rose, then hands John the pencil. "Try copying that."</p><p>He does, his brows drawn with concentration, his hand moving slowly, until he's recreated it almost exactly. "Like that?" he asks.</p><p>"Yes!" She grins, and takes back the pencil. "Now, let's make it look more like a rose."</p><p>Grace gives it more detail, drawing the flower's bulbous interior, and a few of the wavy, scalloped petals around it. John copies her design, each time she finishes a section, until he's drawn an outline of a blossom that's uneven, yet still recognizably a rose. He smiles with boyish pride, his face alight, and Grace's heart stops.</p><p>She is so in love with him it hurts.</p><p>"How about a daisy next?" John asks. "That's what I wanted to do. I, uh..." He scratches the back of his neck nervously. "My mom. She liked daisies."</p><p>"We can do that." She shows him that next, then daffodils, which she's always loved, and lilies. John adds spots to his lily, turning it into a tiger lily with a look of delight.</p><p>God, this is so surreal. She's teaching a vigilante who used to kill people for the CIA how to draw posies, and listening to a vigilante who built an AI read old-school sci-fi—and she's in love with both of them. How is this her life?</p><p>Halfway through a poppy, John's attention shifts to Harold. "Wanna give it a shot, Finch?"</p><p>Harold stops reading mid-word, his mouth hanging open. Then, with a polite smile, he says, "No, thank you. I'm starting to get quite engrossed in my story. But, please, do continue. Although..." He turns and looks out the window behind them. "It's starting to get dark, and I've always quite enjoyed watching the transition between twilight and starlight. Would anyone else be opposed to starting our stargazing venture early?"</p><p>"Why would we?" Grace asks. If she wasn't injured, she'd be scrambling to get up right about now. "Let's go!"</p>
<hr/><p>As she suggested, they get John to drag the mattress from the guestroom outside, while she and Harold sit back with a bunch of pillows in their arms. Above, the sky is a gradient of color, dark indigo and regal plum above turning to vibrant orange-tinged fuchsia on the horizon. She could spend her whole life trying to paint it, and fail gleefully every time.</p><p>A few stars have already started to peek out, hesitant pinpricks of white, dwarfed by the planets shining up close. "It's so pretty," she says, staring at the sky in awe. "I haven't seen even this much of the sky in years."</p><p>"You should see it in the desert," John says, coming up beside them. She looks back and finds him next to Harold, hand settled on Harold's shoulder. "All that big, endless sky when you're really in the middle of nowhere. Miles and miles of stars, not a cloud anywhere. It's really something."</p><p>"Sounds incredible," she says.</p><p>"Could've lived without some of the stuff that came with it," John says, cocking his head in a shrug, "but then I wouldn't have wound up here."</p><p>That part would've been a shame, she thinks, but maybe then John wouldn't be so heartbroken. Maybe he'd be somewhere else, married and tripping over a passel of kids every day. Maybe he and Jessica would be together, living out their happily ever after.</p><p>But that's not the card he was dealt. Just like she wasn't dealt years of marriage to Harold—not just yet. They have to play what they were dealt. They have to find their new happy ending.</p><p>"Here is pretty good," she says. "I like it."</p><p>"I could do without the grief and the violence," Harold says, "but there are many aspects of this era of our lives that I am enjoying."</p><p>"We're doing a pretty good job of making the best of it right now," she says.</p><p>"Let's keep that up," John says.</p><p>They settle in on the mattress, Grace sandwiched between John and Harold, Harold between her and Bear. She helps Harold arrange his pillows, until he lets out a satisfied sigh, all his aching parts supported, and he relaxes with his hands folded over his belly.</p><p>Once Harold's comfortable, she and John get comfortable, John mirroring Harold. Grace lies back with her hands down beside her, one brushing against Harold's side, one John's. After a few minutes, Harold takes the hint, and he reaches down and holds her hand. John stays still, but that's okay. She has time.</p><p>The night air is cool, crisp and damp, sweet. She breathes it in, and something settles in her soul. For a moment, for now, she feels like she'll be okay. Everything will be okay.</p><p>For the first time in years, she thinks she might be okay.</p><p>As the sky grows darker, more and more stars burst into life above them. Harold points out constellations to them, his arm coming up every now and then and blocking out the light. Grace traces the patterns with her eyes, trying to see them, commit them to memory.</p><p>"They're all stars to me," John says, like he's playing dumb just to tease Harold. Harold huffs, and Grace glances toward John and finds him grinning. "I can see the Dippers and the North Star...they're all pretty, though."</p><p>Harold seems mollified by that, somewhat. He settles back down, and it's several minutes before he speaks again. "When I was a teenager, I was...quite opinionated."</p><p>"You're not now?" Grace asks, and can practically hear Harold roll his eyes.</p><p>"That's beside the point. I was dating this girl, and we were a truly terrible match. She was only interested in help with her homework, I was a teenage nerd—it was never going to end well. But I thought I might take her to look at the stars with me one night. You can probably guess how interested in <em>that</em> she was."</p><p>"Not a bit," John says.</p><p>"Indeed. And I told her something that has held true throughout all of my relationships: I never want to be with somebody who is unwilling to look at the stars with me." Harold pauses, then, sounding almost choked up, he says, "Thank you—both of you—for giving this back to me."</p><p>"You're welcome," John says, softly, while Grace leans in and kisses Harold's cheek, the smooth, chilled skin twitching in a smile beneath the press of her lips. It must have seemed so impossible to Harold, with the new limitations of his body, but the three of them are good at the impossible, it seems.</p><p>"We love you," she says. Harold came back to her. The least she can do is help give him back the stars.</p><p>She feels like she's neglecting John, so, on impulse, she turns and kisses his cheek, too. His skin is cool like Harold's, prickly with dark stubble, tempting. John freezes. He doesn't gasp, doesn't even breathe as far as she can tell, still and stiff and silent.</p><p>Neither does she, all the air in the world trapped by the slowly-building pounding in her chest. She lies frozen, far too close, wondering if she should pull away, if she should flee, if she's made a mistake, her head and her insides in turmoil.</p><p>"I think we can all agree," Harold says, breaking the silence, "that this is a natural culmination of this series of events, is it not?"</p><p>"Harold?" John whispers, and she can hear the terror in his finely-controlled voice.</p><p>"You've told me you've been growing increasingly fond of Grace." Harold lets go of her hand, and he reaches over her and rests his palm on John's arm. "And you have told me the same about your feelings toward John. It's frightening, isn't it: being in love, being gifted with love you think you do not deserve."</p><p>John swallows, loud and slow, and Grace dares to move, laying a hand next to Harold's. "Why?" John asks. "Why me?"</p><p>"Because you're you," Grace says. "You're easy to fall in love with. And you are a lot better than you think you are."</p><p>"Both of you...I don't...me?" John whispers.</p><p>"Yes, you." She kisses his cheek again, in the same spot, and, this time, he smiles very slightly, barely visible in the dark. "Because you're wonderful, and you're lovely, and you love both of us."</p><p>"And we love you," Harold adds. "John, I think the three of us could craft a beautiful life together. Already it is quite nontraditional. This would just—"</p><p>"Yes," John says. His voice shakes. "You're both...you're both so important to me. Anything you guys want from me, it's yours. Anything you want with me."</p><p>Oh, John. Her heart aches for him. "We want to make you happy," she says. "John, sweetie, we want you to be happy with us."</p><p>"You're already so dear to me," Harold says. "I cherish you more than mere words can express."</p><p>"And I want to add to that," she says. "I don't want anything from you—you've already helped give me my life back. And you make me happy."</p><p>"An equal relationship," Harold says. "I do believe that's what Grace is asking of you—it's certainly what I'm asking of you. The three of us, together, supporting each other, protecting each other, loving each other. No other demands."</p><p>"And no lies," Grace adds. "Not unless they are two hundred percent necessary."</p><p>Slowly, a new smile begins to blossom into life on John's face. "Okay," he says, laying his hand on top of theirs. "Then let's do this."</p><p>The most rebellious thing she'd ever done before was become an artist. But as she watches the beauty unfurl overhead, lying safe and cozy between Harold and John in the crisp dark of night, her mind drifts, and she starts to think that this might have that beat. She doesn't mind—why on earth would she?</p><p>For now, in this moment, she thinks, she is the luckiest woman in the world. It might not be the one she's used to, but she's sure she'll get the hang of it eventually.</p>
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